No surrender
by Lucia di L
Summary: What if Sandor Clegane had stolen Sansa from Petyr Baelish before their arrival to the Eyrie to ransom her? A fiction about their wandering in the Vale and the Riverlands, from Sandor's point of view. If you don't expect the usual happy ending, this is for you.
1. Chapter 1

First of all, get rid of the red-haired man. He is older, taller than the other ones and the mail he wears reveals he's the only real threat in this clearing. The two younger men's outfits are too fancy for fighting. Drawing his sword, Sandor is in a few strides on him. The red-haired gets up, opens his mouth to say something but before he can shout he is dead. In panic, one of the others begins to run, but too late. The last one draws his sword; he is clearly thinking of all is been taught by his master-at-arms but he is not ready for that. As he can see terror on his face, he is wondering how old he may be. Sixteen? Seventeen? _Won't see his next nameday._ At least, he can give him a clean death. When it's done, he looks forwards and sees her, a shaking form sat on a stool.

From where he was observing, hidden by hundred-year-old trees, he wasn't sure it was her wearing this blue dress under a brown cloak. Her dark hair could have mistaken him, but her silhouette, when she dismounted... She began to walk towards the maid who was bringing food for their meal and he knew this dark-haired girl on the road to the Eyrie could only be her.

Now the maid is on her knees, begging for her life and he ignores her, grabbing Sansa's arm with a bloody hand and forcing her to follow him back to the forest. In a few seconds, Littlefinger's men will be here. She doesn't resist but she's still looking at the corpses he left behind when they reach Stranger. He lifts her onto his horse and climbs up in front of her.

"Where are we going to?" she asks in a high-pitched voice.

"Later."

It was quite a good idea to steal a mare for her in this inn he's been dining in. With Lord Baelish's men after them, it could have been difficult, even for Stranger, to carry them both. She could try to escape, but she doesn't, managing to keep close to him. Obviously she's not a good rider.

At dusk, they reach some ruined castle set on a hill and he hears dogs barking behind them and human voices too. _Here they are. _He hurries himself to the ruins of a tower, dismounts and ties his horse. When she finally arrives, he helps her, then almost push her inside the old tower. She seems to hesitate before running upstairs as he closes the door. _Horses can't be seen from the road, but if their dogs can recognize her smell..._

She's waiting for him upstairs, in a tiny room. It has still its roof, with an oak frame and most of the tiles. Orange and saffron tiles with flaws. Not that he's a very good observer, but the roof is too low for him. Or maybe he's too tall. As Sansa sits on a corner, almost out of breath, he kneels in front of the only window and watches them. They're on the road, a bunch of riders with dogs. Some of them wear the blue coat of arms of House Arryn, others a ugly green which can only be Lord Baelish's.

"Come" he says in a low voice.

She obeys and sits by him. He puts an arm around her shoulders and shows her the little group of men. She remains silent at first, then asks under her breath "They won't find me?"

"They're going away" he answers, looking at her.

He can't say if she's relieved or sad. It's the first time he can watch her since they left the clearing: her blue eyes shine in her oval face, and her skin is as pale and smooth as in his memories. Her blue dress seems ordinary compared to those she used to wear in King's Landing. Of course, she was traveling and needed more convenient clothes, such as these leather gloves without a single ornament. But why this dark hair?

"Are we supposed to spend the night somewhere else or could we stay here?" she asks. She seems to like this place.

"We could stay here, but the horses..."

He gets up and almost knocks himself out with the frame. She stares at him, repressing a smile. She's still afraid and very careful; she doesn't want to make him angry.

"Not this room, maybe" she says.

"We'll find a place in another part of the castle" he rasps, bending his head to avoid the treacherous frame until he reaches the staircase.

They have finally settled in what might have been the first floor of the keep, a big gloomy room, near a great fireplace. She's looking down at the cheese and the bread he gave her as if it was poisoned. Could it be a consequence of Joffey's tragic wedding banquet? When she lifts her eyes to meet his, he realizes the young king's assassination has nothing to do with it.

"What do you want from me?" she asks. "Where are we going to?"

"Home. At least your lady mother's home. I'm taking you to Riverrun."

"Riverrun is no home for me" she answers.

"Your great uncle Brynden Tully will be glad to see you."

She seems surprised. She lowers her gaze, pensively, then asks in her soft voice "Did he hired you? Are you now serving House Tully?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not serving anyone."

"Then, why?"

She gets up, walks towards him and sits on her heels, just in front of him, her blue eyes widened in surprise. Or is it lack of understanding, or something else? He takes a good breath.

"Ransom" he rasps. "Can't stay anymore in those damn woods. I need money to settle in the Free cities."

She remains silent for a while. He can read disappointment on her face, and sadness as well. No, it can't be; she never trusted him, nor liked him. When he offered her to fly with him after Blackwater Battle, she said no...

"Am I your prisoner?" she says, catching him unawares.

He nods. She stares at him, almost challenging the large dangerous warrior he's supposed to be.

"You slaughtered them" she says in a sharp tone. "They were good men and you slaughtered them."

Eyes filled with tears, she goes back to where she was, leaving him with the visions of his fight, a few hours ago. The older one, who could have fought with skill, if he had let him some time; the one who tried to run away; the young lad gathering his strength and heart... But it wasn't a fight, she's right. It looked like a slaughter.

He hears her crying, a few steps away. She's lying on the floor, wrapped in her cloak, turning her back to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She's upset obviously. He watches her sat on some stones fallen from the keep as he's taking care of the horses. She doesn't move, doesn't say anything, doesn't eat either. When he offered her some bread a few minutes ago, she shook her head, mumbling that she was not hungry.

She spent the night crying at first, then shivering, her teeth chattering with cold. The sound was high enough to awake him. He couldn't sleep again and waited in silence, watching what was once the ceiling of this room. Dawn came as a release and in the end he allowed himself to get up.

And now he has to take her to the south, to a place she doesn't even know. They leave the ruins to get back to the forest and avoid this road where anyone can notice a sad-looking girl and a man with a burnt face.

What was he thinking about when he undertook this? She's been raised as a lady, living in castles, sleeping in feather beds. Before its fall, Winterfell had nothing to see with the Red Keep, however, in his memories, it was a comfortable place, where you could be warm and get food whenever you wanted. Then she discovered King's Landing and lived a life of luxury for months. She tasted delicacies of the south, wore the finest silks and heard chivalry songs. And what is he offering her? A long journey through dark woods, alone with an old dog. Everyone knows that dogs bark; they can't talk.

_I should try, at least._

He clears his throat, then turns to her.

"What name are you going to give to your mare?" he asks.

"The mare isn't mine. Besides, I don't like horses."

That sounds like a provocation, in front of such a beautiful animal as Stranger. As if the horse could understand what she says, he snorts. He strokes Stranger's neck and answers "You're wrong, girl, horses are useful. Even good friends."

She remains silent. She's very straight, almost stiff and looks forward, avoiding his eyes.

"What happened to you after I left King's Landing?" he tries again.

"It's of not the slightest interest to you, I'm afraid. Abusing me was part of Joffrey's daily routine before and after you left, so you missed nothing."

"I heard you got married to the Imp" he rasps. He remembers he was in a tavern on the Red Fork when he got the news. He couldn't believe it. But the merchant who told the whole story with saucy details seemed so sure...

"What was it like?" he asks.

She stares at him, exasperated.

"I was locked in the Red Keep, alone. And one day, I was told to get dressed for my wedding. They married me, against my will, to a dwarf. He had to jump on Ser Dontos' back to wrap the cloak around my shoulders. What does it look like?" she snaps.

The merchant he met on the Red Fork didn't mentioned the part played by Ser Dontos during the ceremony. He could tell her her wedding was the last story the merchant told before loosing his buckteeth, but it wouldn't help.

"I'm sorry" he whispers instead, but she ignores him.

/

When they stop at noon, he tries and fails again. She doesn't want to speak to him. She pushes away the meat and the bread he offers her and suddenly he realizes she hasn't eaten something since the day before, since he abducted her. She's slim, at the beginning of a long journey and she doesn't eat anything. How can she make it? Wrapped in a cloak too thin to warm her at night, rejecting food, unable to sleep when she should, she's a burden, that's what his father would have said.

_How could I didn't see this? What was I thinking about when I decided to find her and steal her from Baelish?_ Neither the mountains of the Vale nor the woods of the Riverlands are places for a high-born girl. Now he can only blame himself.

As he finishes his meal, however, she comes to him and sits on her heels. At first, he thinks she changed her mind but soon becomes disillusioned when she puts in front of him a pair of bracelets and a silver necklace.

"What?" he rasps.

"I thought I should give them to you since I'm your prisoner."

Her voice has no trace of anger or provocation. It sounds emotionless. He stares at her, trying to understand and it makes his blood boil.

"Keep them" he says, "What do you have in mind? I'm not a thief."

_No, she only sees me as a killer._

"But do me a favor: eat" he groans, hoping his tone could make her more obedient.

She looks carefully towards him but doesn't move. Is she challenging him? He repeats his order, with the same result: the girl keeps still. After a few seconds, he chooses another tactic.

"We won't move from this place unless you eat something" he says, trying not to lose his temper.

The blue eyes are locked to his, but she remains motionless. After all, she doesn't care about their journey; she hates riding and can't see any good reason to put an end to their break. _And to think that among Eddard Stark's six children, she was said to be the more sensible._ Her stillness drives him mad and he closes his eyes for a second. He seizes her shoulders and shake her, not too much, but the Sansa he knew in King's Landing would have screamed in such a situation. Her mouth is closed and she stares at him, though she doesn't look so confident.

"Can you hear me?" he shouts, "You're going to eat this food or I swear I open your mouth and stuff it with this damn bread. And when it's over, you won't ride your horse, no. I'll tie your hands and feet and carry you at the back of my horse, like a bundle of dirty linen."

That said, he lets go of her and waits. She lowers her eyes and bites into the piece of bread he holds out to her. She looks like a little mouse, both hands on the bread. She eats slowly, swallowing with care before taking another bite. He can't help watching her, frowning and pretending to be infuriated. He allows himself a sigh of relief, but only when she moves away to gather her things. _Maybe she's a burden, but she's my burden._

During the afternoon, a hilly landscape forces them to go at a walking pace, one behind the other. He often turns back to keep a check on her. She follows obediently, without saying a single word. He feels tired. Art of conversation isn't one of his skills, so he keeps silent, waiting for the end of the day to ask the questions he still has in mind.

/

He's been looking for the perfect place to settle for almost an hour, but since he didn't find what he wanted, they dismount when the path becomes too rocky and too hazardous. Night fell and their eyes get used to darkness. Rocks and crags are scattered across the woods, casting strange shadows everywhere. Once he's gathered kindling and branches, he makes a fire and finally sits by her. When he asks her if she's cold or hungry, she shakes her head, then nods. She's making progress, obviously: a few hours ago she wouldn't have paid attention. She takes gratefully her bread and slice of cheese and starts to eat, giving him glances from time to time.

"How did you escape from King's Landing?" he asks all of a sudden, "Was it Littlefinger's idea?"

"No" she says, sighing. "It's a long story."

He takes a gulp of wine from his skin, then makes a gesture to encourage her.

"Ser Dontos offered to help me escape the Red Keep and I said yes."

This confession is like a slap in his face. _She chose the fool instead of me._ He doesn't want to show how deeply he's offended, so he says again "What is Dontos fucking doing with Littlefinger ?"

"_Was_" she corrects. "As long as he was useful for him, Lord Baelish kept Ser Dontos as a puppet. The night I escaped from King's Landing, he killed him. After that, Lord Baelish took me to the Fingers where I met my aunt Lysa Arryn. They got married and we began our journey to the Vale."

"What happened to your hair?" he asks, pointing at her dark locks.

"I wasn't known as Sansa Stark out there. Only Lord Baelish and my aunt knew who I was. The others would call me Alayne Stone : they thought I was Lord Baelish's daughter. To keep my identity secret, Lady Arryn provided me with hair dye."

Her tone is calm as if she was talking about somebody else. She seems contemplative for a while, then says "I couldn't figure what Lord Baelish was planning for me. He said he would help me get Winterfell back, but it doesn't make sense..."

"I can tell you what were his plans" he rasps, making her jump, "As the heiress of Winterfell, he would marry you."

"He's already married to my aunt !" she says, losing patience and thinking he hasn't listened her story.

"This marriage won't last. Littlefinger can't be satisfied with the Vale if he thinks he can get the North too."

She's astonished. After a short silence, she mumbles he's probably right.

"I don't like this black hair" he says.

"Neither do I".

At least, they agree on this point.

She's not crying this time, but he's quite sure she's been brooding over what he revealed her. It's pitch-dark and he can't sleep, thinking of the lasts events. She only lowered her guard when he expressed his concern for her repeatedly. Maybe that's what he's supposed to do : watch over her, make sure she's alright, as a father would do. After all, she's an orphan and maybe he can do for her what people never did for him. Hide his obsession for her would be more appropriate. That's what he resolves as he falls into sleep.

/

This noise, again. The unpleasant, repetitive sound of teeth chattering. Dawn won't come before two or three hours, and she's awake, shivering. He knows he won't sleep again if she doesn't stop. He prepared her abduction so carefully, thinking of all the details, except the fact she would be freezing. He rolls over, undecided, waiting for a flash of genius that won't come, and in the end, he pushes back his cloak. His legs are stiff with exercise, but in two strides he's by her. He picks her up and carries her to the place where he was sleeping. He lies down by her side and wraps his cloak around them both. She thanks him with a shy voice but she's still shuddering.

"I'm sorry" she says, "I'm so cold I can't help shivering."

He tries to soothe her. "Hush... You're all right. Stop it now."

Without realizing, he begins to stroke her shoulder, then take her in his arms. She huddles up and soon her breathing calms down. After a few minutes, she doesn't move anymore and seems to be asleep. He makes sure his cloak covers her and sighs. Holding her in his arms is all he's been longing for and now it's for real. His heart beats too fast and he's lucky she can't see the turmoil on his face. For the first time in his life, he holds a woman in his arms and doesn't know what to do.

_I don't give a damn about behave like her father and all this shit..._

He's lost; this one thing he knows for sure.

**Thank you for reading, especially to TheBlack1: I really appreciate your review.**

** For the record, English is not my mother tongue and this is my first story in english... So please review and be kind!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Centennial trees were the first vision of his nightmare: long tree trunks that surrounded him. He couldn't see their top. Then he became aware of her presence; she had her back to him and he was pleased to notice her long auburn hair instead of the dark locks. As he came up to her, a unexplainable feeling of anguish took hold of him. She didn't move, though she knew he was here, right behind her. Ruffled by her indifference, he looked at her feet and saw the lower part of her skirts spattered with blood. As if it came from the ground, a red wave began to fill the fabric of her dress and went up towards her knees. He heard a voice saying "What are you afraid of ?" in a whispering tone.

Next second, his eyes are open.

Maybe what he recalls from the night wasn't a fantasy, nor a fever dream. She's still there, so close to him and asleep, a soothing vision in the first ray of light compared to his nightmare filled with blood and fear. She mumbles and snuggles up to his chest. He refrains himself from making any move that may disturb her sleep and watches her. How is she going to react when she wakes up ? She's probably not going to protest or blame him for warming her ; her septa taught her to show gratefulness to those who offer their help. Eddard Stark's daughter will reward him with a shy smile at the very least. _But I don't want a smile, no. I just want it to last forever._ Since he hasn't moved for a while, his arm is numb but he doesn't care when he sees the sun's rays on her cheek. When she mumbles and finally opens her eyes, he realizes he's shaking.

She sits abruptly. He does his best to smile, though he's convinced that on his burnt face it looks more like a smirk. She glances at him and all of a sudden, rejects his cloak to get up. She looks terrified and avoids his eyes.

"I'm good enough for you when it's pitch-dark and you're cold, but in daylight, all you see is my ugly face" he spits. "And you're ashamed now that you remember you slept by my side."

She faces him, faking innocence with her big blue eyes. She's conscious of her beauty, no doubt, and uses it to coax him. It's even worse when she tries to justify herself.

"You didn't understand. Let me explain..." she begs.

Anger overwhelms his mind and makes him unable to think or talk. He shouts at her, making her cry. Almost possessed by rage, he leaves her with a loaf of bread and walks away. He stops in a rocky chaos first, but as there's nothing to trample on or to crush, he jumps and returns to the woods. Acting in blind fury, he kicks the branches and even uproots a offshoot and soon gets out of breath. _Look what you've done! You're a damn fool behaving like a child. _

He could burst into tears when he thinks of the disgusted expression on her face. He doesn't ask for much: holding her in his arms is enough for him, even if he knows she prefers some fucking knight, like this two-faced bastard of Loras Tyrell. It was fine as long as she didn't show her repulsion. He pulls himself together and returns to where they settled for the night. Fire is out, everything is packed and she's waiting for him by her horse, a sheepish look on her face.

"I'm sorry" she whispers as he comes to Stranger, "let me explain..."

"No" he shouts, "everything is clear."

"Please!" she says in a contrite tone.

He turns to her, infuriated and shaking. How can she be so cruel to him, faking repentance and trying to defend herself?

"I forbid you to talk to me" he rasps. "Don't say anything, don't even look at me. You don't know me; you don't know what I'm capable of."

The threaten is efficient: she looks terrified and follows him without a single word.

/

On their way, he spends his time cursing. He cusses at the Seven, at Baelish, at himself. His blasphemies against the Seven make Stranger snort and kick out. Or maybe it's his stiff bearing and rough manners the horse isn't used to.

The girl is just behind, compliant ; sometimes he hears her sobbing and it drives him mad.

What did he have in mind, when he took her in his arms? The foolish hope she could change her mind and find in him something she could love? After all, she's the one whom he offered his help at the end of the Battle of Blackwater. _She choose the fool instead of me._ _And she got married to the Imp._ The vision of the dwarf's misshapen body lying by hers was a torture : this image haunted him day and night when he was trying to find her, as soon as he was told about her flight from King's Landing. Marrying the Imp was a chastisement she didn't deserve. However, he has to admit that if having a ugly little man with twisted legs in her bed punished her for all she hadn't done, sleeping with him by her side make no real difference. _A monster is standing in for another one: the old one was a little runt and the new one is big and fierce. The only change is that I'm able to hurt her._

He recalls the images of the men he killed, two days ago. His father would have said that what begins with blood will end in blood. Killing these three men was a bad omen, for sure. Like the dream he dreamed the night before. This journey will come to a bad end.

They eat on the edge of the forest, in silence, at least for her. He can't calm down and goes on cursing. He so pissed off he can't even remember where they are. He has already emptied the last skin of wine he had brought, hoping it would soothe his nerves. He feels dizzy, but certainly not peaceful. She watches him carefully from where she's sat, disapproving his manners and his drunkenness. He ignores her as she ignored him.

Suddenly he feels her hand on his arm and he has to make an effort not to snap her. She carries something hidden in her cloak and he recognizes the handle of his dagger.

"We're not alone in the woods" she whispers and she gives him the weapon she brought.

"How many?" he asks, taking a look at the woods.

"I don't know. Two, at least. Lord Baelish must have sent them. What am I supposed to do?"

"Go back to the horses, pretend to stroke their muzzle and take the dagger in the bag which is by my saddle. You must be prepared to go anytime."

She nods and obeys. When she reaches the horses, he sees the first two men. They are five in all, trying to surround him. An unpleasant freckled youth comes up to him with a smile, drawing his sword. The jerk seems so confident he almost turns his sword in his hands to impress the audience.

"You shouldn't do that" warns a gray-haired man. "You don't know him."

"So you're the famous Hound" Freckles says, without listening to his advice. "People use to talk about your skills on the battlefield, but it seems that you've become a deserter _and_ a drunkard."

He's looking at the empty skin on the ground with a snarky smile.

"Give us the girl and you can go away. We're five; you're alone and you're drunk."

"Let us go!" she commands in a high pitched tone.

_Us_, she says, as if they were two individuals with common interests. It gives him the strength to get rid of the arrogant youth in a few seconds. Once he has removed his sword from Freckles' chest, he turns briefly to her. _This one was for you, my love._ Two men draw their swords and come to him, as the gray-haired waits in silence. They're both too fat, and lack of practice, so it's easily done. Now he's wondering if it's wine or the smell of blood that makes him feel dizzy. Or maybe the worried look she has just given him. The older has experience and suppleness : he moves quickly around Sandor, forcing him to go back, lying in wait for striking. The gray-haired manages to stab his left forearm, but the wound infuriates him and he jumps on his enemy. The gray-haired man stumbles and fells. Now all he is has to do is finish him off and hope she would talk to him again after that. When it's over, he looks around and sees another slaughter. Bodies lying on fallen leaves, their blood absorbed by the dark ground. He remains silent and still for a while, watching them, until she strokes his arm.

"We have to go" she whispers. "Are you all right?"

"Where's the last one?"

"Gone. He ran away when the older man... when he understood it was a lost cause."

She sees the corpses but she doesn't criticize nor blame him.

"We should go now" she insists, looking at his wounded arm.

"Only a scratch. We can deal with later."

He walks away, and she nearly runs to keep by his side.

/

"I don't think I owe you an apology, but there's something I want to explain" she says, ill-at-ease.

She's sat by his side and watches the wound she's just cleaned, following his instructions. It looks like she loves wounds. Or that she needs something to focus her eyes on, to make the confession less painful.

"You remember what I told you about my wedding, with my husband using Ser Dontos as a footstool? I was feeling ashamed and desperate. The banquet proved to be as painful as the ceremony and then, the night came."

_I don't want to hear that._

"This is so humiliating for me" she sighs, "I don't even know how to explain it... My husband didn't... he didn't consummate the marriage."

He frowns, trying to give sense to what she says. Mistaken by his expression, she thinks he doesn't believe her.

"I swear it's true!" she gasps. "When we were alone in my room, he told me to remove my clothes and he did the same. He looked at me and he said he wasn't going to touch me, neither that night nor later."

She sighs, eyes filled with tears. He feels both astonished and helpless after such a revelation.

"That's why I react so oddly this morning. I opened my eyes and... I had never slept in a man's arms. It was so disturbing. I'm sure you felt quite the same impression the first time you awoke with a woman by your side."

Despite the flickering light of the flames, he can see she's flushing and he begins to feel a strange sensation of heat on his own cheeks.

"I'm sorry" he says. "I'm not good with words, but... I'm sorry for everything I did today."

He puts his hand on hers, almost shyly, and notices her nod.

"And I'm sorry for... what happened to you that night. It must have been very... humiliating" he adds in an hesitating tone.

"He said he preferred prostitutes!" she screams, outraged and shaking.

That was just like the Imp: make an effort to behave nobly and spoil everything with provocations. How could he explain that to her?

"He wanted to be... generous," he starts, ill-at-ease.

"Generous?" she yells. "He humiliated me! Don't try to justify what he said."

"Some people have no self-confidence and whenever they try to act properly they can't lower their guard. They keep their taste for... stupid jokes and their bad manners. Tyrion Lannister is one of these."

"It sounds more like a self-portrait" she whispers.

Bewildered, he looks at her and finds her eyes on him. The blue pupils are full of concern; no trace of malice, no attempt to manipulate him. Lowering his own eyes, he watches his bloody sleeve and his wound as if it was a fascinating sight. Seven hells, she too close to him.

"I'm not afraid of your scars" she says in her gentle voice. "You frighten me when you're angry, but... I'm not disgusted by your face". To prove what she says, she puts her delicate hand on his burnt cheek.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your scars" she adds, "on the contrary, you should be proud. Keep it as a reminder of the ordeal you've been through during your childhood. You overcame it. Your scars make you a braver person, I think."

The touch of her hand paralyzes him and it's like a relief when she finally remove it from his cheek. Now he feels able to speak again.

"I won't shout at you anymore," he says. "And I swear I won't do you any harm."

She smiles and lowers her eyes. When she gets up to bring cheese and bread, he notices she flushes once more.

"May I ?" she asks as he prepares himself to sleep.

He nods, faking indifference and she lays down close to him. What is he supposed to do in such a case? He feels clumsy when he wraps his cloak around them both, then wonders if he should lie flat on the back or on his side. She's lying on her side, watching him, and so he does. After a while, he has the need to break the awkward silence.

"I said I was sorry," he starts. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

In the darkness, he can't see her face and her hesitation worries him.

"Of course, I forgive you" she says.

However, he wants to make sure she could trust him again.

"So are we good?" he rasps.

A few seconds go by before she answers "I'm not sure we can be good someday, since I'm your prisoner."

There is no trace of nastiness in her voice, but the last word was like a stab.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He wakes up and the first thing he sees is her smiling face. Obviously, she's been watching him for a few minutes, lying on her side. She's not confused, nor frightened. She isn't even blushing. Her small hand rests on his chest as if it was its place. It seems odd, but as she grew more confident during the night, he got flustered. When he realizes his hand is set on her waist, he feels like a green boy. He has twice her age, has seen many things in his life, but it doesn't matter; the embarrassment and fear of being turned down he experienced with girls when he was fourteen are back. It's even more painful because he cares for her, whereas those girls meant nothing for him. She doesn't want to move and buries her face in his cloak. And now, he wants her.

"Look at your tangled hair" she says, touching a lock.

He could try to kiss her, but chooses to frown as if he was offended. She laughs, her face half hidden by his cloak. She's so beautiful he aches for her, even if he knows it's impossible. This girl could lead him to his ruin and he would follow her without hesitation. She giggles, tips her head back and he eyes her intently. _Now tell me who's the prisoner._ She stops laughing; she must have felt his greedy look and therefore blushes. Self-confidence goes from one to the other with a rocking movement: when he's ill-at-ease she become daring and when she goes bright red he regains his composure.

"Your dark hair..." he starts, "is it going to faint?"

She nods shyly, then replies "I could wash it, I suppose."

"We're almost out of food and I think Strongsong is not so far. I need to buy bread and wine there. I could get some soap too."

"That's very kind of you, but Strongsong's castle belongs to House Belmore. They're faithful to my aunt Lysa and if they learn where we are..."

"They won't. We'll go in the village next to the castle and we'll be careful. Besides, I'm not sure your aunt wants to find you. If she's clever enough, she doesn't want you by her new husband."

She nods but seems thoughtful. Suddenly, her face shines and she asks "You're worried about my dark hair, aren't you?"

/

Strongsong castle stands on a rocky spur by the river; the village is set down below. Small houses that look like hovels clutched to the hill and barefoot children running through the muddy streets are the first sights they get from the place. They walk side by side: her hood hides her hair and face while he watches the area carefully, holding the reins of their horses. He stops by the inn and tells her to wait for him. The tavern is almost empty; only two old men sip their ale in a gloomy corner. They seem so dazed they don't notice his presence. The innkeeper, a pot-bellied red-headed woman, tries to rip him off, asking twice the price for the food she sells him.

"Do you have some soap?" he finally asks, after clearing his voice.

She looks at him with a suspicious frown. "Soap?" she repeats as if was a kind of exotic goods, coming from the Free Cities. She mumbles something and waddles to a large chest. Soap seems to be precious in those lands.

"There you are," she says. "So you try to make yourself handsome, huh?"

That's a good question. Maybe he should try to look more presentable, though his face will always cause fright and disgust. After those weeks wandering in the Crownlands and the Vale, he probably stinks as badly as Flea Bottom's pigsties. However, the most urgent thing to do is to find some hot food for her: he asks for fried fish and leaves the inn relieved from a silver coin. She smiles when he comes back to her and nearly burns her hands with the fish.

"I should feed you like a child," he says, blowing on her delicate fingers.

She stays close to him and puts her hood back in its place as they go down to the river.

/

The river surroundings seem quite welcoming and they stop earlier than the other days. Once she's find kindling and branches for the fire, she asks if it's a good place to take a bath.

"A bath?" he rasps, almost shocked.

"Of course, I want a bath. Otherwise, how can I wash my hair?"

"Do as you want," he replies. "I'll be waiting for you right here, I'm thirsty."

She shrugs at his strange answer and leaves. As soon as she's out of sight, he goes to get one of skins he has just bought. Alcohol is what he needs right now: when she talked about washing her hair, he didn't understand she meant a bath. He agreed on removing the hair dye; that was the plan. But thinking of her, naked in the river is more than what he can stand. Gulps of cheap wine would soothe him, he thinks, and make him as stunned as those old men in Strongsong. Maybe the influence of alcohol could paralyze him and stop him from doing her anything wrong. He takes big gulps of wine, trying to forget why he's sat by the fire, drinking. The skin is almost empty when he realizes it doesn't work. All he can think about is the curve of her waist where his hand rested during the night. She snuggled up to him and let his hand linger there: between his callous palm and her skin, there was only the broadcloth of her dress. _She's a hundred feet from where I'm standing and she's naked._

He feels like his blood is boiling, literally, and wine isn't behind this. His memories of the night before and above all, the thought that she's there, not so far from him, drive him mad. The dwarf saw her naked as the day she was born and he didn't touch her. Could he do the same? Suddenly, he understands that she makes him weak: the slightest thing she does can elate him or throw him into turmoil. He can't even behave properly when she's here. He remembers what happened in the tower of the ruined castle, a few hours after her abduction: she nearly laughed at him when his head hit the frame. As tall as he is, he's used to avoid lintels and exposed beams, but he was clearly distracted. That's the way it is, when she's close to him. He becomes a green boy again. _A green boy, mad and half-drunk._

She's back and he understands he can't make it: he can't pretend when he sees her damp hair and goosebumps on her bare arms. She's only wearing a long shirt, carrying her dress and boots.

"Get dressed," he says, trying to keep calm.

"It was so cold out there," she replies, kneeling by the fire. "Soap is here, if you need some, by the way."

"Get dressed!" he commands.

She's astonished; after a second of surprise, she obeys and puts her dress on. But he knows it's not enough; quietness won't come so easily. The rope is just there, behind him. Frightened and motionless, she watches him getting up, coming to her, then grabbing her arm.

"What are you doing?" she asks as he drags her towards the trees.

She doesn't resist, though. He ties her fists together, makes her lean against a trunk. She could struggle with him or try to move, but instead of defending herself she stares at him. Ignoring her and gritting his teeth, he seizes the end of the rope, ties her to the tree. When it's done, she's crying silently and he runs down to the river. _Now I know I won't do her any harm._

Water soothes him more efficiently than wine. He can't feel any pain in the icy stream. However, he can't stand the idea of her crying under a tree: he rushes out of the river, dresses up as fast as he can. She's not sobbing, nor saying anything when he arrives, out of breath: when he remove the rope, she wipes her tears and tries to decipher his expression. He takes one of her fists, despite her gasp of surprise and gently strokes it.

"I'm sorry," he says in a repentant tone. "I won't do that again."

"Why?" she asks, shaking.

"I'm mad. Everyone knows it."

Once again, her insistent look makes him feel uneasy. What does she see when she stares at him? Is she able to guess at what he's been through? What he experimented at war or when serving the Lannisters? Does she have the slightest idea of what he felt during Robert's rebellion, when he first met the fury of battlefield and the sensation of his sword piercing a man's chest? Maybe she knows instinctively a part of his life. No matter how mad it is: sometimes he feels she can read him like words on a page.

/

They eat in silence and he feels so stupid he can't say anything. _I can't even apologize properly._

"Why did you do that?" she says finally. "Was it to remind me I'm your prisoner?"

"No" he gasps. Maybe he's wrong about what she sees in him.

"Because you don't act as if I were your prisoner, most of the time. I know what it is to be a prisoner, out there in King's Landing and that's not..."

"You don't know anything, girl," he answers softly. "I did something stupid and I'm sorry. I mean it. But don't try to understand why I did what I did. I spoil everything... That's the way I am. There's nothing to say about what happened. I did that because I wanted to."

She swallows, then asks, whispering "What is that supposed to mean?"

**Thank you, everyone for following and reviewing! This week, there's two new chapters: I hope you'll enjoy both of them.**

**To blueSands : Choosing Sandor's POV was a serious challenge so your review means a lot to me! Anyway, getting into the skin of Sandor is very interesting.  
**

**To atiketook: Thank you. Hope you'll like this chapter and next one!  
**

**To Xarine: I'm glad you like it. Depicting Sansa is sometimes a bit difficult, but next chapters will show how determined she is.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

He was surrounded by the same tall oaks with their treetops vanishing in the mist. She stood there, her back to him. As he moved forward, he felt a immeasurable sadness. She turned slightly when she got aware of his presence and he could see her profile, her domed forehead and her straight nose. A gentle smile ran on her lips. He put his hands on her shoulders and suddenly noticed the blood stains on her skirts' hem. The stains widened while his distress grew, and he saw the blood filling the lower part of her dress, going up to the waist. He wished he could do something, but his limbs wouldn't move. Her lips half-opened, she said "What are you afraid of?"

He awakes with a start and gasps. Headache is back, as painful as it used to be, years ago, after his first nights in King's Landing taverns. He didn't drink, though. Her worried look stopped him from emptying his wine skin. But now she's here, leaning over him with the same concern.

"Are you all right?" she asks, touching his forehead with her cool hand.

"It was only a bad dream."

"Tell me. Old Nan says it makes them go away."

"Can't remember it," he lies. "It's sunrise; we should go."

When she sighs, he knows for sure she doesn't believe him. Still, she obeys.

/

They barely talked the day before: she wanted him to explain what he had done, without knowing where to start. He felt so ashamed of his behavior and his silence he tried to please her promising game for diner. But he's a terrible hunter and came back empty-handed. In desperation, he placed two snares in the closest thicket: there might be hares in the area. Before leaving, he comes to see the traps he left and finds a young hare. He brings back the dead animal and gives it to her, a proud smile on his face.

"What do you expect me to do with this?" she says in a reluctant tone.

In his father's house, there was a half-blood dog. The mongrel used to bring back lizards, mice or insects every morning to his masters. His father sighed as the dog wagged his tail, asking for affection. One of Gregor's favorite games was to kick him. Is he acting like a mongrel, now?

"Don't worry, girl," he says. "I will skin and gut the hare myself tonight. All you have to do is..."

"Cooking. As if I knew how to cook."

"As if I knew how to hunt."

His reply makes her smile and her expression softens.

"I can do that for you, though I don't guarantee it will be edible," she finally says.

He ties the hare to his saddle, changes his mind and comes back to her. "You're not my prisoner," he confesses. "If you want to go, you can..."

A interrogative look is set on her face as she watches him; she doesn't seem shocked, she's barely surprised. "You mean I can go away by myself and stumble on the path ?" she answers. "I'd rather stay with you."

"I mean I'll stay with you if that's what you want, but I won't ask for a ransom," he rasps, ill-at-ease.

She remains silent for a while, then says "My great-uncle will be grateful for bringing me back. He'll give you a reward."

"An honorable word for ransom." His tone is bitter and she briefly touches his arm, a understanding look on her face.

/

At noon, after finishing her meal, he watches her coming to see her mare. It's the first time she strokes the animal's head.

"So you don't like horses, huh?" he says in a mocking tone.

She turns to him, still brushing the mare's head. "Arya is the one who likes horses. I'm not mad about them like her. But this one is nice."

"Will you give a name to your mare?"

"Maybe," she whispers. "If you help me find a good one. How did you choose Stranger's name?"

"Stranger was the only name worthy of his beauty and his strength. It was obvious."

For a second, she stares at the black horse with his sheen sides under the autumnal sun standing a few feet from them.

"Well," she says. "If yours is Stranger, this one could be... the Maiden?"

"Too easy," he answers, shaking his head. "What about Lemoncake?"

"Lemoncake?" she repeats in a smile. "You know I love lemoncakes and you want to make me like the mare. It sounds odd. I'd rather give her the name of some food you like, since you chose her for me. What's your favorite food, by the way?" Almost forgetting the mare, she's standing in front of him. Her hair is tousled and the lower part of her dress muddied, but her beauty could bring him to tears.

"Dornish wine," he finally replies.

"Wine is not a type of food. What did you like to eat when you were a child?"

That's a good question. The thing is, he hasn't many good memories of his childhood. For him, childhood means Gregor's brutality and his parents' death. Once again, she brushes his arm, as if she wanted to break his silence.

"I don't know. Cinnamon bread, maybe. I remember my mother loved cinnamon bread."

"This is a fine name," she says in a determined tone. "Her coat has the spicy brown of cinnamon. You like your new name, Cinnamon? Look what I brought for you."

No matter how silly this name seems to him, he won't say a word. He watches her feeding the horse with a crust of bread. She turns to him once more and adds "She's an obedient horse. I'd never do such a thing with Stranger. I wouldn't dare."

He can feel regret in her voice.

"You'd better not try to touch Stranger when you're alone, but if you want..." he says.

She bites her lower lip, hesitating.

"What if Stranger kicks out?" she asks.

"He won't do that if I'm by your side."

She follows him and stays very close as he strokes Stranger's neck.

"Give me your hand," he says. She puts her small hand in his before he applies it to the horse's head. She's a bit frightened, at first, then her hand seems to relax on contact with the animal. "Please come," he whispers and she positions herself in front of him.

"You won't go?" she asks in a low voice.

"I'll stay behind. Stranger needs to get used to your presence and your smell."

His hands are close to Stranger's nose, when she begins to stroke his head shyly. He could embrace her; if he bends he could easily kiss her hair or her neck. _Don't think of that, not now. Don't ruin everything. _Instead of giving in, he focuses on Stranger and says "Be a good boy, treat her right and make her love you. You already love her, don't you ?"

She turn to him briefly, smiling.

"He's such a beautiful horse, Sandor," she says in an undertone. Confused, he realizes it's the first time she gives him his name. Her right hand lies now a bit close to the horse's mouth. He gently replaces it further up on Stranger's head and let his hand linger on hers. "I don't want you to be bitten," he explains, though she doesn't protest.

"Am I adopted?" she asks after a while.

"Think so. But I thought you didn't like horses."

"I didn't mean it; I was angry... No matter what I said, Stranger is a beauty." She moves back to where she was, breaking the spell.

"Good boy," he says, leaning closer to his horse's head.

When he turns to her, he catches her smiling with a fond look.

/

Strongsong is few leagues behind them now, and they follow the river penetrating deeper in the lands, leading them to the King's Road. They could be in the Riverlands within two days. Sometimes, she glances at him: she's still wondering about him. _One day acting as her savior, next day I'm the worst roughneck soldier of Westeros. How can she trust me? I don't even trust myself. _

But today, it's different: he feels relief after confessing he won't ransom her. She's not his prisoner, she's free to go but she's still here, sighing and fighting to keep pace with him. When he sees her frowning and biting her lower lip to avoid obstacles on the path, he craves for her. He could try to talk to her, but he doesn't feel comfortable yet. Action has always been easier for him than words and he doesn't want to say something stupid. He doesn't want to be misunderstood.

As they make progress along the river, the crags and rocks give way to a landscape of small hills : the road isn't so difficult for her as it was the first days. He doesn't need to wait for her from time to time because she goes too slowly. He has almost forgotten the reason why they're traveling in the Vale when he sees them.

On their left, a centennial oak spreads his long twisted branches above the path. Its leaves and acorns are all fallen, but _something_ is hanging to some branches. Coming closer, he can see six human forms swinging in the North wind. As soon as he realizes that, he stops and turns to her. "Don't look," he says. But it's too late: she stares wide-eyed and begins to shake.

"What..." she starts. She's too overwhelmed to end her question.

He comes back to her, anxious, and seizes her hand resting on the pommel. Pressing her hand through the leather glove, he tries to reassure her but she keeps on watching the hanged men. "Don't look," he repeats softly.

She shifts her gaze: on the verge of tears, she asks "Who are they? Who hanged them?"

All he can say is that he doesn't know. War has not spared the Vale, contrary to what he thought. In a protective gesture, he replaces the hood on her head, and leads her forward. They have to go on and pass under the tree and its strange burden. For a second, he looks at the hanged man swinging above his head: his face is gray and his eye-sockets gave place to blacks holes.

"Who did that?" she insists.

He could answer it's just like Gregor, but his brother is supposed to be in King's Landing: another thing he heard spending time in taverns. No matter who did this and who were these poor souls, this is something he didn't anticipate: he can't protect her from that. During her stay in the capital, she mourned for her father, then for the rest of her kin, she endured Joffrey's cruelty, she experienced taunts and disdain, but this, the reality of wartime, she didn't know it. Looting, war crimes and battlefields meant nothing for her, so far. But that's where he's leading her to, if only because that's all he knows.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The smoke warns him that something's wrong. Instead of the delicious smell of roasting meat and hot grease, he finds a hare nearly burnt to ashes and a shamefaced Sansa. Sat by the fire and coughing, she barely arrived before him.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I was supposed to roast the hare and everyone knows how easy it is... All I had to do was watching the fire but... I wanted to water the horses before you return. Can you forgive me?"

His throat and eyes are assaulted by the acrid smoke but he can see her repentant look as she tries to get rid of the smoke with sweeping movements.

"To get your fault forgiven, we can do as the natives of the Summer Islands," he mumbles. "Forget it," he adds when she frowns without understanding.

He sits by her as she looks sadly at what remains of their dinner.

"And to say that I collected some wild onions and stuffed the hare with it," she laments. "I wanted you to be proud of me."

Now he notices the smell of burnt onions: repressing a smile, he removes the wooden spit from the blackened carcass and leave it to cool. After a few minutes, he detaches the legs which may be the only cuts edible. He gives her one of them and clears his throat because he doesn't want her to hear his stomach rumbling. He's starving. And hungry for her, as well.

"This is the best charred hare I ever ate," he comments, smiling.

She looks daggers at him and he tries to keep a straight face. Tonight, he feels mischievous. Maybe he needs to overlook what they saw during the day, forget those hanged men and the fear in her eyes.

"Now you know I wasn't lying when I said I can't cook," she says. "I never learned. Never thought it could be so useful."

"Next time, it will be better," he promises.

/

When it's time to sleep, he sees her removing her cloak, folding it and putting it on the ground.

"You're going to be cold," he warns.

"You're going to have a pillow. Let's say it's my way of getting my fault forgiven."

He has to control himself not to kiss her when he lies down. She sits down by his side, her back to him, undoes her braid and begins to comb her hair. After the bath she took, the dye didn't completely disappear: her hair is still darker than it used to be, but someday it will be the same auburn locks he loved to watch when she was hurrying herself in the corridors of the Red Keep. He holds out a hand towards the brown hair covering her back then gives up. _Don't spoil everything._ She braids her hair for the night, lies down and he wraps his cloak around them. _This is the best moment of the day. _

She's silent at first, then he hears her giving a sniff and asks what's wrong.

"Those men," she says. "I wanted to pray for their souls, but..."

"Come here," he answers softly, taking her in his arms. "It's over. Nobody can hurt them where they are. I'm sorry you saw this bloody mess."

She clings to him, still weeping as he repeats how sorry he is.

"Don't be," she whispers. "It's like the riot in King's Landing: I was terrified, I thought I was going to die and you came. You seemed to detached at that time... You would never have comforted me like you're doing now. What happened?"

He blesses the night for hiding the turmoil on his features.

"We were at King Joffrey's court," he answers. "I was expected to fight. Not to comfort anyone."

Once more, he wishes he could eat his words: his explanation sounds tactless, almost rude. She doesn't seem offended, though and doesn't try to escape from his arms. Instead she buries her face in his neck and stay there for a minute. He goes on rubbing her back, wondering how long he can keep this chivalrous attitude before doing something stupid. _After all, I'm no ser._

"Will you tell me why you kidnapped me?" she asks, taking him unawares.

He sighs. _Don't do that to me, my love. I'm not ready for this._

"I needed money to go to the Free Cities."

"And my great uncle will give you a reward. I'll insist on this point."

Brynden Tully might give him as many dragons as he wants, he already received his reward: it's the moment when he helps her dismount and allows his hands to linger on her waist, the sight of her eating stale bread and this awful goat cheese as if it were some rare delicacies, the sensation of her huddling up to him. There's nothing better than the warmth of her chest against his, except the waking dreams he allows himself before sinking into sleep.

"Why did you choose to kidnap me instead of another one?"

"Talking of this with you is really awkward," he protests. "All you need to know is that you're not my prisoner."

"Tell me."

"You're the heiress of Winterfell and I knew your great uncle would... pay. On top of that, you're not the kind to fight with your abductor and escape. It stands to reason."

She keeps silent for a while, then says "If it stands to reason as you put it, tell me why I don't believe you, Sandor."

Sometimes, he wonders if she uses his first name just to destabilize him. Anyway, his heart beats faster. _The green boy is back. _

"Queen Cersei wants me back in King's Landing," she adds. "She thinks I'm responsible for Joffrey's death and deserve a trial. Many people are looking for me since she offered a reward to anyone who hand me over to her. And in spite of all her efforts, she couldn't find me. She's the queen, she has every possible means, but _you_ found me. So how did you do?"

As she clings to his chest, he feels like he's going to pieces. What would someone else do in such a situation, someone different from him, who doesn't lack self-confidence? Jaime Lannister, for example. It seems odd, after leaving his former masters, but he often refer to them. Faced with an awkward question, Jaime Lannister would be capable of joking and changing the subject. He would bewitch the women with his handsome face and his golden hair. At the very least, he would preserve his dignity. Too bad for golden hair and powers of seduction, all he can do is trying to regain his composure. He lets go of her and rolls on his back, one hand behind his head, pretending that his emotions are under control.

"You'd be surprised to know all that a man can learn spending time in taverns," he answers. "That's the way I heard you were married. Later, someone told me Baelish was going to the Vale and when I got the news of your flight, I made the link. Took me a day or two to follow your lead."

"A day or two?" she asks. "I'd rather say a week."

She's right: he spent a whole week looking for her after she escaped King's Landing. Finding her before their arrival to the Eyrie, before abducting her became impossible was the main thing. He had to hurry then, after a few weeks hidden near the capital and in the Riverlands, wondering how he could see her again. But she doesn't need to know.

"I had plenty of time: I really needed someone able to roast a hare," he says in jest.

She seems offended and protests "Stop making fun of me!" She sighs and lies flat on her back, her head resting on her cloak. Despite the dark, he can feel her insistent gaze: she must be looking daggers at him, once again.

"After you left me, that night, I worried about you," she finally confesses. "I was afraid of what the Lannister's men could do to you if you got caught. When she thinks someone betrayed her, Queen Cersei is ruthless. And so was Joffrey. And I knew you wouldn't surrender if they were to find you. That you would die fighting. "

She's so close he can feel her breath in his neck.

"After all, you saved me several times and I never got a chance to thank you properly. These last months, I was wondering when I could see you again. _If_ I was to see you again."

"I missed you," he says in an undertone. Almost shocked by his own revelation, he tries to find something to say, but he doesn't have any idea and can't take it back. A small hand slides against his ribs and stops on his chest. Staying still has never been so painful.

"I missed you too," she answers. "It's late. We should probably sleep."

If he was a believer, he could easily read this as a punishment from the Seven for his ill deeds: sleeping with the one he craves for without touching her.

**Many thanks to those who follow or favorited this story. This chapter is a bit shorter than the other ones, but I'll soon be able to post something longer...**

**If you like this one, please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

There's something he doesn't understand.

This morning, she was in his arms when he awoke. He kept staring at her until she opened her eyes and gave him a sweet smile that almost broke his heart. She was cheerful and did her best to make him laugh. But it didn't work. Though he wanted to share her good mood, he acted like a silent and boring old dog.

Maybe that's the point: he wanted to bring water to her so she can wash her face and hands and used one of his wine skins in order to do this. When he reached the pool they settled by, he saw his reflection on the water. Since he deserted after the Battle of the Blackwater, his frequenting of bath houses and mirrors decreased drastically. He never was concerned about his appearance, because he knew he couldn't compete on this field. He didn't care about, or choose to believe he didn't care about: he had swordplay. Sometimes his burnt skin proved to be an asset when facing some young and impressionable knight. But until this morning, he didn't realize he was aging. The dull surface of the pool reflected the same scars as usual on the left side, half hidden by his dark hair. _But on the right..._ He couldn't miss the crow's feet and the weariness on his face. An anxious wrinkle distorted his forehead. He caught sight of his own reflection, wondered, then got rid of the unpleasant image plunging the wine skin into the water.

/

As they ride, heading for the Riverlands, she tries to talk and brighten him up, despite of his incommunicable look.

"How many days left before we reach Riverrun?" she asks.

"Five days. Maybe four."

Suddenly he realizes that, within five days, she'll become a memory. There will be no more hands lingering on her waist, no more sensation of warmth when he awakes with her in his arms. No more stupid fight to hide his arousal from her. He turns to her, briefly: a quiet smile is set on her face. At this moment, with her pale flawless skin and her braid falling on her left shoulder, she's the perfect picture of youth. The rigors of the journey didn't blunt her energy: very straight on the saddle, she seems rested. He envies her the confidence he sees in her eyes. This is unfair. He's the one who will start a new life as soon as he arrives in Essos whereas she's just returning to where she belongs. He should be optimistic and full of strength. Instead, he feels like a human wreck.

"Where are you going to, in Essos?" she inquires.

"Dunno yet."

"Tyroshi masters armorsmiths are well-known for their skills," she says in a courteous tone.

Her voice has the same politeness and gracious detachment she always kept in King's Landing. He remembers this tone drove him mad when she spoke to him. At that time, he felt it as an insult. He clenches his teeth not to shout.

"I don't give a shit about Tyrosh."

"What about Pentos?" she suggests. It seems she never gives up.

"Keep on talking, girl. I'm captivated."

She sighs and comes nearer. The layers of her dress brush against his knee, distracting his attention. From day to day, his obsession for her legs grows dramatically: while she dismounts, he can't help watching her curves and imagining her thin thighs under the blue broadcloth.

"What did I do?" she asks, suddenly worried. "Please tell me what I can do to bring a smile on your face."

_Let me remove your clothes, maybe. And mess up your hair, too._

She sighs again in view of his silence.

"What are you going to do out there?" she asks. This time, he feels concern in her tone.

"I could be a sellsword."

She seems disappointed.

"That's the only trade I know," he says softly. "I'm not a fucking knight. I was like a sellsword in King's Landing. Don't imagine that I like what I had to do. I did it because the Lannisters paid me."

"You were faithful to them."

"Now I'm a craven and a turncloak. And I will live upon what I do best: killing."

If someone wants to hire him. The image of his weary face, as he saw it a few hours ago comes back painfully. Maybe he's already too old to find someone who needs his services. Maybe there's always someone younger and quicker than you in Tyrosh. Most men of his age have a trade and a family of their own. He has nothing, except an unforgettable face and a burden of memories. What if he doesn't find anyone to hire him in Essos? He imagines himself in some tavern of the Free Cities, alone and depressed in front of jug of wine. He will miss the sour red of Dorne, but if he just wants to get plastered, drinking nectar or cheap wine doesn't matter; drunkenness is the same wherever you are. Maybe it's too late. Maybe he should have clear off years ago.

"What do you want to talk about?" she insists. "I think we never discussed the battles you fought nor the historical battles you like best. What's your favorite feat of arms, for instance?"

He feels like he's going to lose his temper.

"Historical battles bore me stiff," he groans. "I don't give a damn. You want me to talk about the battles I fought? It smelt of mud, blood and shit. And the battles during the War of Conquest smelt exactly the same, no matter what kind of bullshit you've been told. There's no bravery, no feat in war. Only men killing each others and taking pleasure in doing so."

She's appalled. Her eyes shine with tears and her mouth is slightly open as if she wanted to say something.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't talk to you like this. You don't deserve it."

Once again, she comes closer and her knee brushes his leg; removing her right glove, she puts her pale hand on his, making him shiver.

"Why are you so sad?" she asks.

She could get angry or make a face but she seems so concerned by his behavior he feels guilty. As her hand lingers on his, he notices how she leans towards him and begins to worry about her balance.

"Keep your back straight," he warns her. "I don't want you to fall."

But she doesn't want to let him go: she takes his hand and sits up straight. Their hands now hanging between them, they keep the same pace. He holds her hand tightly, squeezing and clutching. The sight of a clearing warmed by midday sun breaks the spell. They dismount and begin to eat without a word. They're sat on a log, side by side. Once she finished her meal, she turns to him.

"We don't need to talk if you don't want to," she says.

She kneels in front of him, very straight.

"Just... come," she whispers, her arms open.

He almost falls in her arms, his head against her neck and shoulders. His arms wrapped around her waist, he holds her more tightly than he ever did at night. She lets him do as he pleases, stroking his hair. At first, he feels like a little boy, comforted by his mother. Then the smell of her skin intoxicates him. To make him dizzy, she doesn't need the fragrances she used in King's Landing. Her creamy skin has a warm smell that drives him mad. Tightening his grip on her waist, he makes her arch her back. He doesn't feel like a green boy at that point, he's more like the wolf of her sigil. She failed, if she wanted to calm him down: he could easily take advantage of what's happening and tumble her on the grass.

"Are you all right?" she asks, still stroking his hair.

He just nods, enjoying the smell of her skin.

"Maybe it doesn't concern me," she adds, "but I can't let you go to the Free Cities without telling you. Instead of leaving Westeros, you could... serve House Tully."

_Here we are._

"My great uncle may need your services."

"No offense, girl, but I didn't desert like I did in order to bend the knee in front of some other lord. From now on, I won't serve anyone."

"You could serve me," she says in a shaking tone. "You helped me when we were in King's Landing... Maybe it's my turn to take care of you."

Despite her hesitating voice, she knows precisely what she's doing. She's conscious of the influence she has on him.

"I'd like to say yes and I thank you for your concern, but I can't," he answers softly, his face buried in her neck.

"Why?" she almost cries.

_Because your great uncle will marry you to one of his allies and I don't want to see that. And most of all, I don't want to see those bastards ill-treat you and undress you during your bedding._

"I told you I won't serve anyone."

"Being a sellsword means to serve someone," she says in her bitter tone.

Leaving the snug area of her neck, he raises his head and stares at her. She swallows painfully, trying to hide her emotions. How can he be so cruel to her? He turns away his eyes, then looks at her carefully.

"What do you want?" he rasps.

"I'm not sure. But I don't want you to go. Will you change your mind?"

"I can't make promises. Promises are for fools."

Now she's ill-at-ease and wrings her beautiful hands.

"The grass is wet," he notices. "Your dress is going to be damp and I don't want you to catch a cold."

Once standing, he helps her get up.

/

This is strange, really. He's the one who craves for her, who's afraid to be rejected but she nearly begged him. And he said no. _Stubborn old dog._ All he can do now is take care of her and hope she'll forgive him. That's why he's hanging around in the woods, looking for the best spot for his snares. If he catches some hare, he'll stay with her to cook. Not only because he doesn't want to eat charred meat; he doesn't want to lose a single moment before leaving her.

When he comes back to the place they settled for the night, he hears another voice. Before he can realize, his hand grabs his sword arm. He hurries himself and sees an old hunchback dressed in green and brown talking to her. She smiles at the uninvited guest and even laughs. With a firm step, he comes to her and puts a protective hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, there you are," she says, beaming.

Is she beaming at him or at the intruder? Before finding out, he must get rid of the old man. Coming out of the hunchback's leather boots, he notices the handle of a dagger in the shape of a bear.

"So you already met my daughter?" he asks him.

She stares at him, frowning and the little old man seems surprised.

"Albett, m'lord," the hunchback says, bowing to him. "Albett the hawker, if it pleases you and your lady daughter."

He looks down at the hawker, hoping he would be frightened by his height and his scars. _Leave us alone._ But the hunchback smiles and they can see all his rotten teeth.

"I'm not a lord. I'm a master-at-arms and we're coming back home. And you, where are you going to?"

"I'm going to Lord Harroway's Town, with all the goods and fine cloth you can dream of. I was telling your... _daughter_ I have to sleep under the stars, just like you do and I'll be happy to share my dinner with you."

He doesn't know what he can answer to this request. Kicking him up at the backside could soothe his nerves but saying no may arouse suspicion. He's not even sure the hawker believes she's his daughter.

"Could you bring us some wine, girl?" he finally says to her.

She rolls her eyes as they sit by the fire.

/

The hawker is very talkative: first, he mentions his children, who wait for him in Fairmarket. Then he speaks to them about the news he heard recently. It seems that he knows every gossip from the Vale, but he doesn't say a word about Baelish's bastard daughter on the run with a turncloak. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the man either, though she seems delighted by his stories. Maybe she needs company. Keeping her apart from the whole world is a punishment for a sociable girl. She only lowers her eyes when he mentions the Imp, who chose trial by combat, after being accused of his royal nephew's murder.

"I think my daughter is tired," he says to get rid of the hawker. "It's quite late."

The hunchback only takes his leave after leading them to his old cart collapsing under goods: tools and knives, fabrics, ribbons. Does the young lady want a ribbon? As she refuses politely, he wonders if he shouldn't buy something for her.

"I'll sleep here," says the hawker. "Keeping an eye on my cart, you know. Maybe we can eat together on the morning, and I'll tell you some others stories before I go."

She claps her hands and he doesn't know how he could say no. When they go back to their camp fire, he allows him to sigh.

"It's the worst lie I ever heard," she tells him in a low tone. "My father? You think you look like my father?"

"Your father was a lord full of qualities, I know. I've already heard that song."

"That's not the point. You're too young to be my father."

"Too young?" he repeats, astonished.

"Anyone can notice you're too young. He doesn't believe you, as a matter of fact."

"What was I supposed to say?"

"You could have said you were my brother or..."

She blushes: they're thinking about the same thing. _Her husband._

"I don't like this snooper. Don't trust him either," he states, lying by her side as she combs her hair.

"Why?" she protests. "He's harmless!"

"He's a hawker, going from town to town, knowing everyone, collecting gossips," he explains. "He must have heard something about us but he didn't say anything. Why?"

"You never trust anyone. People may come up to you and offer their help, you always reject them."

Her braid done, she lies flat on the back, gritting her teeth. He wraps the cloak around her shoulders.

"He's a good man," she says to put him in a rage.

"I can't trust anyone."

"So you don't trust me either?" she asks, looking at the stars.

He turns to her, ill-at-ease.

"I trust you. Always have. Always will."

"Why do you refuse to stay with me in Riverrun?"

"It's not a matter of trust. It's about... what I want to do for the rest of my life."

_If I reach Saltpans or another harbor before someone kills me._ She stares at the sky, avoiding his eyes.

"Maybe I should buy you some ribbon," he whispers, grabbing the end of her braid resting on her chest. His fingers have never been so close from her breasts. She finally meets his gaze, but there's a sparkle of provocation in her eye.

"I said I didn't want a ribbon. However, you can give me one if you stay with me in Riverrun."

"Are you blackmailing me?" he asks, laughing and playing with her braid.

"Are you flirting with me?" she answers.

"I'm not flirting with you. I don't fucking know how to flirt!"

Rolling on his back, he wonders if he could be sated with her sight or the smell of her skin someday. And decides that it's very unlikely.

**Thank you for reading / following / favoriting this story and most of all, thanks for the reviews! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and keep on reading. At this moment, I'm wondering about how this story will end (there will be at least seventeen chapters, you won't get rid of me so easily). I had quite a precise idea when I started writing and know exactly what I don't want, but... Anyway, I'll be glad to have your suggestions and comments on it. Your words are always appreciated!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The same dream of her bloody dress, once again. This time, he wakes with a start in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat. Pushing back the cloak, he sits to catch his breath. She rubs her eyes and asks what's going on.

"It's only a bad dream," he whispers. "Go back to sleep."

Ignoring his advice, she sits by him and strokes his back as he tries to forget the dreadful visions of his dream. His head in his hands, he breathes loudly.

"Come," she says, taking him in her arms. "It's over."

She cradles him for a minute or two, letting him bury his face in her neck. Once he's quiet, she lies down, still holding him. His head is now resting on her chest and he clutches at her. He adjusts his breathing to hers, intoxicated by the smell of her skin, then realizes his lips touch the neckline of her dress. He could seize the opportunity to kiss her and maybe he will, when she awakes, but for now he just wants to sleep in her arms.

/

When he opens his eyes, he sees the pale skin of her neck in the faint light of dawn. He remembers his nightmare and how she tried to soothe him. She's still asleep and he decides to wait, giving in to the moment. Maybe he could let the things drift. Maybe he won't have any other chance before they reach Riverrun. The thought of what could happen in a few minutes frightens him suddenly: all the women he has been with were whores, women he didn't need to be tender with. But she's different. Even a kiss is supposed to be different with her... Before he figures out what he's going to do, he realizes there's someone else, watching them.

He looks up and sees the hunchback hawker, sat by the extinct hearth. _He knows._ Very carefully, he sits and replaces the cloak on her shoulders, then gets up and takes his sword. He looks down at the old man and makes a gesture to lead him away from her. They stop by the cart.

"What kind of father are you?" asks the hawker, smirking.

"The kind of man who will do whatever it takes to protect her."

The old man doesn't seem shocked: he almost laughs. "Maybe we could agree on something," the hawker says with an unpleasant smile.

He realizes his heart beat faster when his scabbard clangs as he puts on his belt. The man carries only a dagger with a strange handle in the shape of a bear. He probably doesn't know how to use it; it could be so easy...

"Maybe I can buy you something. Before we find a common ground," he rasps.

More than happy to sell his goods, the hawker grins from ear to ear, and uncovers his cart so that he could make his choice. After a quick look, he points at a blue ribbon and a long woolen shawl and gives him a silver coin. The old man thanks obsequiously and plants himself in front of him.

"I know who she is," he says in a confident tone. "You kidnapped Lord Baelish's bastard daughter. Everyone knows it in the Vale. I'll have a reward for reporting where and when I saw you both. Unless you give me a better reason to shut my mouth."

_A reason of steel, double-edged, forged by one of the best armorsmiths of King's Landing: my bastard sword. Or maybe my dagger._ The dirty little snoop glances at the horses they tied to a tree, the night before.

"Can keep your secret if you give me your purse and your horses," he says. "The black one to pull the cart and the other one to carry my old carcass. Tell the young lady I robbed you, if you want. We don't want to annoy her with those details, do we?"

"No, we don't," he admits, as his heart races. When he was a boy, he learned swordplay and its subtleties. He was younger than her when he fought for the first time, and quite sure there was no better way to kill a man standing in front of you. He was wrong; he soon became aware that daggers were sometimes more useful, especially when acting in strict secrecy. He unsheathes the dagger he keeps at his side, grabs the man's arm and stabs. His hand is on the hawker's mouth before he could utter a sound. The hawker totters then falls on his knees, still holding his forearm; he tries to say something, looks at him without understanding and shuts his eyes. Removing the blade from his chest, he wipes it to the man's brown tunic, picks the shawl and the ribbon and goes to check on his snares. On his way to the snares, he changes his mind and comes back to the hawker, in order to hide his body and his cart. Before leaving, he takes the curious dagger the man kept in his boot. As far as he can remember, weapons always fascinated him.

/

"Sandor!" she calls in a high-pitched tone as he comes back to her. "Where have you been? I woke up and didn't see you."

She's sat, wrapped up warmly with his cloak, looking half-awake. He kneels by her, holding a dead hare as a trophy.

"How many victims, this morning?" she mocks.

"Only one. But there's something else." He gives her the blue ribbon. "The hawker is already gone. Told me to give you this."

"It perfectly matches the color of my dress!" she says, excited, then sighing. "I thought Albett wanted to say goodbye before leaving us."

"He changed his mind."

Ill-at-ease, he puts down the folded shawl in her lap. "This is from me."

She glances at the shawl, then stares at him. She almost beams with joy.

"I guess Albett is not the only one who changed his mind. You'll stay with me in Riverrun."

"I can't make promises," he answers, shaking his head.

Her small hand raises to his burnt cheek and she whispers "I'll make you stay."

_You're killing me, my love._ As she pushes back the cloak and gets up, his eyes linger on her curves. Yes, she could make him stay. And suffer each time he sees her with another man. He's got no chance to marry her. He could stay and wait for the moment when she gets tired of House Tully's bannerman she's supposed to marry, but he doesn't want to share her with someone else. When they're ready to leave, he makes sure to lead her away from the place he hid the hawker and his cart.

/

They set out on the trail once again. She tries to please him today, smiling at him, insisting on the softness and warmth of the shawl. _It will warm you up when I'm hundreds of leagues from Westeros and remind you this journey to Riverrun with an old dog drooling over you._ Despite her cheerfulness, he finds it hard to smile and talk. His lies about the hawker are like a wall between them. She doesn't know and never will; she wouldn't understand. If she were to learn what he did, she may never speak to him again. But for now, she marvels at the beautiful view. They crossed the King's Road early in the morning, in order to avoid the others travelers, and they're heading to the Green Fork. The only way to cross the river is to go to the Ruby Ford, so they have to move farther south. A shady glen opens in front of them: after the mountains and crags of the Vale, there are only gentle slopes and groves of trees. Most of the leaves have already fall, but some remain and she enjoys their autumnal shades: brown-red, coppery, amber-colored, reddish. Instead of sharing her enthusiasm for the beauties of the landscape, he wonders how long she will keep this frame of mind. She never complained, so far, but she's a young girl, raised in a castle, and sooner or later, she'll need to change her clothes and sleep in a proper bed. The Crossroads Inn would have been perfect for this purpose and it's on their way to Riverrun, but what happened with the hawker was a warning. People are ready to denounce them, if they have the opportunity to do so and get a reward. _After all, we're at war._ Sleeping in some inn is foolhardy, above all because recognizing him is so easy with his burnt face. But the thought of her sleeping in a good bed instead of lying on the ground is tempting.

Lost in thought, he almost jumps on the saddle when she calls him in her gentle voice.

"Look at the river," she says. "It was so different when we saw it from the King's Road, when going to the capital."

The Green Fork is in spate, its stream swelled by rain filling the riverbed, carrying branches. She finds it beautiful but an anxious wrinkle appears on his forehead: crossing the Green Fork is going to be more difficult than he thought.

/

Despite the lowering sky he watched with apprehension all afternoon, rain shower only starts after they settled under a deserted barn. On its roof, many tiles are missing but the left corner of the structure will shelter them from wind and rain. He stays by her side when she roasts the hare, both pleased and amused to notice how she takes it seriously. As soon as he praises her progresses, she goes bright red.

"This is almost the end of the journey, and finally, I'm able to give you something edible," she sighs.

He can't say a word: the few days left before Riverrun upset him, of course, but he didn't expect all the efforts she makes to be useful and not to complain. In King's Landing, when he became enamored with her, he only saw her as a spoiled little girl, and now her bed is made of leaves. _And she cooks for both of us._

Once again, the lies he told her about the hawker make him ill-at-ease. As he watches her combing her hair, he thinks about what he felt before killing the man. His heart beat wildly as he prepared himself to unsheathe his dagger. Is it what people call blood lust? Nobody ever dared to say it in front of him, but he's aware of his reputation: the Hound doesn't feel neither pity nor remorse. He killed in cold blood this morning and if she finds out, he looses her. No matter what he thinks about himself, she lies down and turns her head to him.

"Talk to me," she says in a begging tone. "You were silent all day long."

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, replacing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Tell me a story. I'm sure you know dozens of stories."

"All the ones I know end in blood or tears."

"It doesn't matter. Just tell me why you like it. Or what it means for you."

He sighs and thinks for a while. There was this story his father told him the day he was given his first sword. But is she ready to listen to it?

"Have you ever heard the story of House Tarbeck?" he starts.

She nods. "_The rains of Castamere_ made them famous. Unfortunately famous."

"My father used to say they once were the most powerful vassals of House Lannister. He was a boy when they rebelled with House Reyne against Tytos Lannister. Tytos Lannister was supposed to be weaker than his ancestors and it could be their only chance to get rid of their overlord. So they tried, and Tytos sent his eldest son Tywin against them. At least, that's what most people believe. My father was pretty sure Tytos didn't send anyone: Tywin Lannister tried to overcome his father's reluctance to punish them ruthlessly. Finally, he took it upon himself. So he besieged House Reyne's castle of Castamere. In spite of the experience of Lord Reyne, the castle fell. All his occupants were killed. Castamere was destroyed. Then, Tywin Lannister led his host to Tarbeck Hall. The Tarbecks knew what had happened to their allies. They soon became aware they had no chance to escape their fate, unless they bent the knee. They choose not to do so and swore they would fight til death. No surrender. When I was a boy, elder people of the Westernlands said that even Tarbeck women fought during the attack. None of them survived to tell the truth about it. Anyway, Tarbeck Hall fell and House Tarbeck is now extinct."

After such a long speech for him, he needs to pause. Rain drums above their heads, soothing his nerves, but in the opposite corner of the barn, where almost all the tiles have fallen, water gurgles, making an unpleasant sound.

"It's strange to think your father chose to tell you such a story," she points out.

"Because he was House Lannister's bannerman? Doesn't mean he loved to serve them."

"He was a man of duty," she says and he nods. Lying on her side, she slips her hand on his chest, making him shiver.

"Why is this story so important for you?" she asks, almost whispering.

"I don't know. People usually see this story as a proof of Tywin Lannister's cruelty. Or as a lesson for those who rebel against authority. They say the Tarbecks' fucking pride led them to their ruin. I don't agree. Maybe they were stubborn, but in this case, I love stubbornness."

He turns to her, anxious about her reaction. Instead of a frowning Sansa, he finds her with a thoughtful face. She smiles at him.

"This is just like you," she says in a low voice. "You always laugh at chivalry and knights, but it's only because you set chivalry ideals above everything. I bet you think the Tarbecks' choice is brave and even wise."

"Wiser than bending the knee, for sure. Imagine what could have been their lives if they had given up. Is life worthy when you're seen as a rebel who failed his rebellion? As a coward who laid down his arms?"

She laps up everything he says and he sees her stare wide-eyed as if she's just understood something.

"So you prefer to follow the Tarbecks' example and... you think a quick death is better than a long life serving a noble house?"

_Like House Tully._ When he notices the tears in her eyes, he feels guilty. He never wanted to do her any harm, nor make her cry.

"I just don't know what to do," he confesses.

**Your support, in its different ways (reading, following, favoriting and reviewing), is invaluable, while I'm still puzzled about the ending... PM are really appreciated, as well. I'm always happy to receive your messages and I promise to give a quick answer. So feel free to give your opinion!**

**To AncolieRose : Thanks for your review: I'm glad to know you appreciate it! Concerning the ending of the story, I'm still wondering and considering the readers' opinion. I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best. Still waiting for tender moments between our lovebirds? Be patient, it's coming. Next thursday.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Weariness came over her: her cheerfulness had disappeared when she finally got up. For the first time, he had to tell her twice it was time to go, before she pushed back his cloak and stopped pretending she was asleep. She needs a better place to rest at night, not a stupid barn in those damn woods of the Riverlands. She needs good food and company; all he can't give her.

"Are you ill?" he asks with anxiety.

She shakes her head, avoiding his eyes as she gathers her things. He gets closer and seizes her shoulders, forcing her to turn to him, perhaps a little too briskly. An unreadable expression is set on her face, but she locks eyes with him. Her behavior changed right after she understood he may not stay with her in Riverrun; however it could be some coincidence. It _must_ be something else. Ignoring what makes her suddenly distant will drive him mad: he has to know what's going on behind those blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" he rasps, his hands on her shoulders.

"I want you to come with me and stay in Riverrun."

"Why? What would you do with an old dog? You think your great uncle will allow a fucking deserter to serve him?"

"You're the only one I can rely on." Her tone is sad, nearly begging. "I trust people, unlike you. And I chose to trust you."

He rolls his eyes, wondering what he could say. She misunderstands his reaction and he hears her bitter laugh.

"You're the one who abducted me, then said I was free to go and now you make me beg you," she says with anger. "I remember that whenever I called you 'Ser' in King's Landing, just because I didn't want to give you one of your awful nicknames, you would answer back 'I'm no ser'. Well that's true: when you behave like you do, you're not a knight."

Infuriated, he tightens his grip on her.

"Is there someone so important for you in Essos that you want to leave me alone in Riverrun?" she asks in a challenging tone.

"No!" he shouts. "Of course not."

"Then, why?"

Her shoulders stiffen under his hands and he sees her face's muscles contract not to burst into tears. His normal self would ignore her and laugh, but he can't do that. Maybe he was right when he first got the instinct that she only could make him weak. He swallows hard.

"Let's say I change my mind and stay with you in Riverrun," he starts. "Welcoming a turncloak pisses your great uncle off, but you bug him for three days and he finally lets you do as you please. What's going to happen within six months?"

She shrugs, surprised by his question.

"He'll decide which bannerman makes a good husband for you!" he says as if it was obvious. "And when it's done, you think your husband will agree on letting me follow you as a pet dog? That's not likely. If I stay with you out there, it would be temporary. I would have to pack again soon. I'd rather cross the sea right now."

He lets go with her, almost proud of his self-control.

"My great uncle won't do that!" she protests. "He can't. I'm already married."

"Seven hells, you're too naive! As soon as he knows the Imp didn't..."

The words get stuck in his throat and she stares at him.

"As soon as you tell your great uncle about it, he'll find you a husband," he finally says, regaining his composure.

"I'll ask my lord and master to let you come with me," she says in a stubborn tone.

"For what fucking purpose?" he shouts. "It's time you wake up and understand you can't always get what you want."

When he notices she's fighting back tears, his voice softens and he cups her chin in his hands.

"I'm just saying it's not possible. I wish I could stay, but I can't. There's nothing you can do about it. You belong to Riverrun now."

"What about you?" she asks. "Where do you belong?"

"I'll find out. Sooner or later," he rasps.

Once again, she's very close and her presence makes him uneasy, as if she was dangerous for him. Even touching her face like he does is stupid: he crosses his arms. She sighs heavily.

"I'll make my best to find some inn," he says. "You could eat some hot food and have a good night's sleep."

"I couldn't care less," she answers. "That's not what I'm asking you."

She turns around and walk away before he can say anything.

* * *

They didn't exchange more than a few words during the day. Neither the clear sky nor Stranger's comforting presence relieved him from anxiety. _"Where do you belong?"_ she said this morning, on an attempt to make him stay in Riverrun. That's a good question. When he planned her abduction, he could only think of the obstacles and troubles _before_ stealing her from Baelish. He scarcely imagined what it would be like to cross the Vale and the Riverlands with her. In his fantasy, she was sat on a log, in front of him at dusk, and he could watch her, eye her greedily. Their arrival in Riverrun, the ransom or reward he would receive, what he would do next: all that seemed far off. But it could be within two days. What would he say to her when it's time to bid farewell? And where would he go? He pulls back the reins as if he wanted to slow down their advance; she overtakes him, frowning, and stops her mare.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

Her complexion is still very pale but she doesn't seem upset anymore. She's just disappointed with his reaction and sad because she soon will be surrounded by strangers. Once again. He dismounts, without knowing why he does so, and looks round. Behind oak trees, at some fifty feet from where he's standing, there's a clearing. Knee-high grass, herbs and fern give it different shades of green and brown. He comes up to the edge of the forest, holding Stranger's reins and she follows him silently. Still on horseback, she's so close to him when she stops that her skirts brush his forearm. He grits his teeth not to look at her legs and be overwhelmed by his need for her.

"This place is beautiful," she whispers. "Don't you think so?"

He nods.

"Are we lost?" she asks.

When he turns to her, he notices a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. She's almost smiling, for the first time in hours.

"Maybe we are," he rasps. "What do you think?"

"I think it's a beautiful clearing where we could spend the night."

He looks at the sky: night won't come before three hours. They should go on.

"I'm pretty sure there's a village in this direction. All we have to do is to follow the path. I promised I'll find a place where you could eat and sleep well..."

"I don't want to spend the night in a tavern. People could recognize us. Besides, I'm tired of following the path."

_What is that supposed to mean?_

"Can't you just pretend we're lost?" she asks, looking down at him. She's so close to him her knee strokes his ribs.

"We're lost," he says impulsively. "I'm positive. Better spend the night here and carry on tomorrow."

"Music to my ears," she whispers with a playful smile. "Can you help me?"

She opens her arms to him. _An order I can't refuse to obey._ He helps her dismount, restraining himself from eying her greedily. She doesn't look upset or ill-at-ease. Amused, she stares at him. _She's teasing me._ It's just as if she were asking him to play with her. He feels both anxious and excited as she makes her way in the knee-high grass.

* * *

Are Northern girls witches? He could easily believe it. After she had a close look around and gathered kindling, she sat in front of him, allowing him to watch her, just like in his fantasy. Lit by the fading sun, then by the fire, her face and hair took strange colors and he couldn't help scrutinize her fiery locks and pale skin. Her neck and its lines obsessed him more than the other days: he kept looking at it, imagining the smooth skin under his lips and her shivering if he dared to kiss her. Without any warning, she stands up and sits by his side. Glancing at him, she says she's cold and asks for a back rub. Neither teeth chattering nor goosebumps on her neck can be noticed; however he complies. Now that she's in his arms, her delicate cheek resting on the mail covering his chest, he feels apprehension. What is she going to do next? She suddenly sits up, surprising him.

"Thank you," she says. "I think I need a bath."

"You must be mistaking me for your maid," he rasps.

She looks at him, astonished, then bursts out laughing. When she calms down, she locks eyes with him.

"...says the man who doesn't know how to flirt," she mocks.

For the first time in his life, he feels witty.

"I wouldn't allow my maid to sleep in my bed," she adds, challenging him. "Your turn, now."

"I don't fucking know how to flirt," he answers. "Teach me."

He could blame it on the flames, but he's almost sure she's blushing.

"Well, you could say something like 'First of all, it's not a bed we're sleeping in' and..." she says.

"And I'm the one you picked you up that night and carried you to the place where I was sleeping. It's my bed."

Her look is both amused and charmed. He doesn't feel like the burnt and ugly man court women feared in King's Landing. They're just a boy and a girl playing some silly game. And this game she initiated is out of her control.

"It seems you don't need any lesson, Sandor," she points out.

"Why are you blushing?" he asks, taking her unawares.

"It's... Let's say that thinking of you as my maid is quite inappropriate."

"It is, m'lady."

His mocking tone make her laugh nervously. He's not a green boy anymore, he's a grown man facing a young girl wondering when he's going to kiss her. And he wants to take his time.

"So you want a bath," he says with a deliberate slowness.

She nods. "Are you going to tie me to a tree?" she dares to ask, still blushing.

"Don't think so. Maybe _you_ should tie me. Or knock me out. Just in case."

Puzzled, she looks at her feet, then at him. He feels confident enough to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her onto his lap; she doesn't protest and looks up at him shyly. He bends over her to meet her lips. They're sweet under his and he's pleased to notice she raises a hand to his burnt cheek to make it more comfortable. He enjoys the sensation of kissing her and her smell for a few heartbeats then breaks with her. The blue eyes are locked to his and full of hesitation. She's asking herself if she should say or do something, without a doubt. The turmoil he can read on her face amuses him, especially when he understands she wants another kiss. As a dam too weak to resist the strong current suddenly gives way, he can't help kissing her again. Their first kiss was as tender as this one is fiery and almost desperate. Her mouth opens to him and he's so eager their teeth meet before he can even think of slowing down. The skin of his burnt cheek is almost painful as he presses his lips against hers, and he wraps one arm around her waist while his right palm brushes the neckline of her dress, making her shiver. They're both out of breath when he stops. He's aching for her and knows how dangerous it could be if he doesn't gain control of himself. She doesn't move and stares at him with much more confidence than he expected; he suddenly realizes she could take the initiative of another kiss, anytime. He's not sure he could restrict himself for a long time, so he gently puts her down on her feet.

"Why?" she asks. She seems to wonder what's wrong.

"Because I don't want to do something stupid."

She sits by his side, still trying to catch her breath. He glances at her, noticing the rise and fall of her chest. _Behave yourself: she's a lady._ All at once, he feels the urge to speak.

"Do you agree on staying in some inn tomorrow night?" he says, looking right in front of him.

"Well, yes," she answers after a few seconds. "But I thought sleeping in those places was risky, since people are looking for us."

He nods. "It could be."

"I guess it's not a problem as long as you stay with me." She puts her small hand on his, making him wonder if he can share his cloak with her this night without misbehaving. He swallows hard.

"Can we afford it?" she asks. "I mean... I still have my necklace and bracelets..."

She's just given him the pretext he needed to stand up and keep his distance. He walks towards Stranger, takes the bag behind his saddle and begins to look for his purse.

"What are you looking for?" she says. "It's dark. Bring your bag by the fire if you want to find something."

He sighs and removes the bag from its place. As he sits by the fire, she comes closer, kneels down and watches him searching. When he finally puts the hand on it, she stares wide-eyed.

"Did you take so much money with you when you left King's Landing?" she asks.

He feels the weight of the heavy leather purse, then answers "You don't want to know."

The merchant he met on the Red Fork not only gave him some information about her wedding but gave him a fair amount of money too. Against his will, maybe. But a man so talkative and curious about lady Sansa Stark would be pleased to know his dragons and stags will provide her a good bed. She smiles at him with a strange mix of emotions: worship and apprehension, as she perfectly understands what kind of thing he's able to do.

"What's this?" she asks. Before he could say a word, she picks up a dagger with a long thin blade that makes it look like an ice-pick.

"Careful with it," he answers as she peers at the weapon. "It's a misericorde dagger."

"Misericorde?" she repeats. "Is it used to... finish off someone?"

"Aye. Used for thrusting between chinks in armor. Very efficient. I won it on a tourney."

Despite his fear of shocking her, she doesn't seem upset. Only impressed by the weapon and what he can do with it. She glances at him, then hold out her hand to some other blade. Smiling at him, she takes a dagger out of his bag, ready to ask what it is and where does it come from. Her smile vanishes as soon as she sees the handle. It shows a bear, standing up and roaring.

"What did you do to him?" she asks, recognizing the hawker's weapon.

Telling the truth is the only choice left.

"I killed him," he says with coldness.

Now he can read terror on her face; she puts the dagger on the grass, looking at it for a moment.

"He had children!" she screams. "Albett was on his way home and you killed him!"

It sounds like giving him his own name makes his death nearly tangible.

"He knew who you are," he explains trying not to lose his temper. "He threatened me. He... he said I had to give him the horses and pay him to keep his mouth shut."

"And of course you chose another way of shutting his mouth," she says in a bitter tone. "How could you?"

He tries to reach her hand but she moves back instantly. "Don't touch me."

_I did it for her: how can't she understand that?_ A hand on her mouth, she shakes her head as if she couldn't realize the hawker's murder.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asks in desperation.

"I don't know... You could talk to him, try to convince him..."

"That's not how it works. He was ready to tell anyone about us. I had to stop him."

"Why did you lie to me? You could have told me," she says.

_Because I knew you would be looking at me like you do right now, my love. _

"And the shawl?" she asks. "The ribbon I wear today? You stole them from him?"

"Seven hells, no! I bought them before..."

"...Before you murdered him!" she snaps.

She stands up and walks towards the place half-sheltered from the wind he showed her when they dismounted. She lays down, wrapped in her cloak. As he comes closer, she rolls on one side to avoid his eyes. His chest feels tight when he prepares himself to sleep. He tries to wrap his cloak around both of them but she turns down his offer. His normal self would shout or become violent, however sadness prevails over anger. He knows what it's like to be rejected, he experienced loneliness more than once, but _this_ could make him burst into tears. Of course, the kisses they exchanged only minutes before have something to do with it. He tasted her lips, saw the same need as his in her eyes but suddenly he felt misunderstood and left behind. And even if she's so cruel to him, he can't help desire her. Waiting for the moment she will turn to him, he stays still, only allowing his eyes to caress her and to linger on her back, waist and hip, as if he wanted to map them. However, the faint hope she might huddle up against his chest because she's chilled to the bone vanishes when he hears her even breathing: she's asleep. He takes off his cloak and gently wraps her shoulders with it. Without making a sound, he moves towards the only thing that caused him as much pain as she did: fire.

* * *

**Once more, thanks for reading, following or reviewing: it's good to have your opinion about the story and I always try to answer as quickly as I can. I hope you liked this chapter and I'm looking forward to your comments!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Far behind him, an owl hoots, disturbing the stillness of the night. Knelt by the flames, all he had to do for hours was observing the fire die down, leaving only ashes. Ashes seemed to fill his mouth as well, each time he would peek at her lying form, recalling their kiss. Among all the women he met, he chose one he can't marry. And among the noble women he can't marry, he chose the one who is both as innocent and as cruel as a child. They should be lying together under his cloak, forming one hole in the grass, but he's there, miserable and useless. North wind makes him shiver now that he gave her his cloak. And he can't even drift off to sleep.

When he remembers how the evening began, he sees her as the late afternoon sun was shining with spendthrift glory: she was standing up in the knee-high grass, very straight, her back to him, just like in his nightmares. But she wore her blue dress instead of the bloody one of his dream. She observed the clearing for a while, then turned her head and glanced at him. Her expression was unreadable: her lips slightly parted, she seemed to wait for him. Then she walked away. He felt like the hunter in front of a doe, without knowing if she's unaware of his presence or taunting him. He felt excited and maybe overconfident. _But I'm a terrible hunter. _He should have kept that in mind.

All of a sudden, she rolls over and gives a cry of surprise.

"Sandor!" she calls. "Where are you?"

She sits up, pushes his cloak and sighes when finally seeing him by the fire.

"I thought you were gone," she says, walking towards him and kneeling by his side. He can feel reproach and concern in her voice, but decides to ignore it.

"Gone?" he repeats. "Would it really bother you?"

She stares at him, shocked first, then ashamed.

"I'm sorry about all I told you," she says in a repentant tone. "I feel so stupid. I mean... Don't ask me to agree with what you did, but I realized you wanted to protect me."

Is she honest with him? Is she toying with his heart? She comes closer, allowing him to see her bright eyes and enjoy the smell of her skin. Sooner or later, he won't be able to think properly.

"I was unfair," she adds. "Forgive me. You know how I was raised. What I was told by my septa. I'm supposed to react like I did in front of an act of violence. My education was supposed to be an asset in King's Landing. It only made me weak when Joffrey revealed his true nature. I'm fighting against it, but..."

She stops, nearly out of breath after her confession. An anxious wrinkle distorts her domed forehead as she reaches out and takes his hand.

"You're cold!" she cries out loud. "Why did you stay here?" She stops short once again, realizing she's the reason he spent the night by the fire.

"Forgive me," she says, squeezing his hand and coming even closer. Her voice is smooth, tantalizing. "I should be grateful for what you did. For all your efforts to keep me safe. But the foolish Sansa is always here, ready to spoil everything."

She goes on, but he doesn't listen to her. All he can think about are her curves and especially her breasts. They must be cream-white, round and firm. He could just hold out his hand and touch them.

"... why I wanted to apologize. I'd do anything to get my fault forgiven," she whispers.

"You shouldn't say that in front of me, girl," he rasps.

She ignores his warning. "It's still pitch-dark. Sun won't rise before two hours. Come with me and get some sleep," she begs.

He sighs but he can't say no. He rises on his feet and follows her. When they lay down at the place where she was sleeping, they both feel ill-at-ease. First lying flat on her back, she rolls on one side and so he does. She takes his hand and puts it on her waist. He stares intently at her. _Don't want to make any mistake. Don't want her to think I'm a dickhead, only wanting to sleep with her. Even if I do want to sleep with her._

"Don't worry," she says softly. "I'll stay awake and make sure we don't get up too late."

As he keeps on looking at her, she raises her hand and gently brushes his eyelids to close them.

* * *

"It's time," she whispers.

At first, he feels the warmth of his cloak, except on his feet, freezing in his boots. His left arm is numb because he didn't move for too long and her breathing tickles his neck. She stares at him with a fond look, in the dim light of sunrise.

"'Morning," he says, after clearing his throat.

Maybe he should get up now, before letting the things drift. Before acting like a jerk. But when he sits up, she nearly protests "There's something I want to say to you."

He runs a hand over his face and turns to her.

"I've been thinking and... I don't want to go to Riverrun," she says.

His heart skips a beat and he curses in disbelief.

"What... what do you mean?" he mumbles. "Why?"

"First of all, I don't know anyone in Riverrun," she explains, sitting up and smoothing her skirts. "Even my great-uncle is a stranger to me. And I've been thinking about what you told me. You're right: he'll find a husband for me as soon as he can. I can't handle the thought of being married to someone I don't like and I don't even know."

She looks so miserable at this point he's sure it's a matter of time before she bursts into tears.

"You must think I'm selfish and deprive you of your reward," she sighs. "But you can't blame me for refusing to go to Riverrun if you don't want to stay there either. You told me I was free to go and... you know I can't make it by myself. So I'm asking you to come with me."

"Where?" he says.

"Home. Winterfell."

He gasps.

"That night, when you came to my bedroom and offered me to run with you, you said you wanted to head north..." she says in a high-pitched tone.

"I was... drunk. I never promised you to go to Winterfell. Seven hells, it was months ago! Everything changed: your brother's dead, most of your lord father's bannermen bent the knee... and there's the Boltons! The North is a bloody mess."

Suddenly, he wishes he could take back his words. Maybe she's going to believe he's more craven than he is. Is the disappointment on her face caused by what he said about the North or by the coward she thinks he's become? She frowns, pondering on his words.

"So you think it's impossible to go to Winterfell?" she asks.

"Of course not. It would be a very difficult and long journey, and I'm not sure you're ready for it. Every morning I wake up wondering how much time you will be able to go on."

"I'm stronger than you think."

He takes her small hand in his, squeezes it. "I know you're strong. But what's your plan once we are in Winterfell? If we are lucky, your lord father's castle is a deserted ruin. But if it's too late, we could find a ruin occupied by Lord Bolton, who is already Warden of the North. Trust me, you don't want to see that. And you don't want to meet Lord Bolton either."

When she looks up at him, all he can read in her eyes is dismay. She clutches to his hand.

"If we find any of my father's bannermen, he would help us," she says.

"Not if they bent the knee in front of the boy king. I heard people talking about hostages. Some of these bannermen already lost sons during the Red Wedding and they're waiting for their remaining sons who are Walder Frey's or Roose Bolton's guests. As soon as they try to help you, crows will fly in the northern sky announcing their sons' death. I'm not saying they're bad people, but they have all reasons to be scared. Some of them may be tempted to bring you to Lord Bolton to prove they're faithful. Or to the Lannisters, which is nearly the same. We're at war and you're a prey. Don't forget that."

She sighes, thinking about his revelations.

"The thing is, we don't have enough information about what's going on up there," he adds. "I don't know whether it is possible or not. If I could spend the night in a tavern..."

"If you had to put yourself in my place and decide," she cuts him off, "where would you go?"

"Riverrun seemed safe," he starts, after a while. "But you don't want to go there. And Winterfell is not a good idea."

"What about your place?"

"My place? Like the place where I am born? My brother owns it and I left some fifteen years ago. I'm not welcome at Clegane's Keep. Forget it."

She gives him a begging look. "Where would you go?" she insists.

"You're not going to like it, girl. What you need is a place where you can hide from the Lannisters. And Essos could be this place. But you're not ready to go into exile in the Free Cities."

"Would you help me in such a case?" she asks.

"Of course. I'll do anything for you."

When she meets his eyes, he's suddenly afraid to be too frank and to embarrass her, so he adds "You could stay as long as you want. You'll be free to choose a husband when the time comes."

"When the time comes," she repeats, thoughtfully.

_But please choose me. _His heart starts beating really fast as her hand escapes his. She sighes, once more.

"You need time to make your decision," he states. "So we're going to cross the Green Fork. Find some inn where you can have a rest. And I'll try to learn more about what happened in the North. Is that fine with you?"

She nods, but soon takes his hand.

"There's something else I wanted to tell you," she whispers. "I got angry last night mostly because you lied to me and treated me like a stupid little girl."

"I'm sorry... I won't do that again." It seems that he told her the same damn thing a thousand times.

"If we are to spend some time together, I want to make sure you won't choose for both of us," she says in a determined tone. "We have to make common decisions from now on. Do you agree?"

Holding her hand, he brings it to his lips and kisses it gently. He feels clumsy but she lets him do.

"You have my word. We'll take our decisions together."

She looks at him intensely and smiles shyly.

* * *

The rise of the Green Fork is worse than he thought: he tries to remember his last autumn, but he never saw anything like this. Their horses squelch on the waterlogged path: an unpleasant sucking noise ponctuates every step. But their slow pace is nothing compared to what they see: riding along alders and poplar trees, they notice a pontoon almost destroyed by a strong current, and a mile farther, it's a cabin, collapsing in the river, as the muddy water of the Green Fork swept away everything in its path. She becomes nervous, as they come closer to the ford a peasant indicated them. The mare feels her anxiety and begins to show her own apprehension, snorting and whinnying. The ford doesn't seem safe: current is too strong and high water prevent them from crossing. After two hours trying to find a better place than this ford, they're back. They finally stop on the bank of the river.

"I'm not sure I can make it," she says. "I'm sorry for complaining, but..."

"Don't worry. I'll show you."

There are moments like this when he's both pleased and annoyed by Stranger's personality: he gets into the water without uttering a sound whereas ordinary horses would make a fuss. Every step he makes in the riverbed, the stream is faster. Before reaching the middle of the ford, his boots and breeches are wet and water comes up to Stranger's neck. The horse begins to whiny in surprise, then in distress, when realizing how far is still the bank. But he holds tightly the reins and leads Stranger using his heels. When the horse hoists himself on the other side, they're both dripping wet. He dismounts, turns to her and sees the relief on her face.

"Thanks be to the Seven," she says. "You're safe!"

"The Seven have nothing to do with it, girl. You can do it."

She shakes her head, transfixed by fear. He tries to reason with her, but she gives him with an appealing look. "I can't do it alone. Come with me," she begs.

He ties Stranger to the closest alder and strips his cloak and mail, which can only impede him, then gets into the water. It's cold and mud gives it a yellowish-brown color. He begins to swim, even if she protests and wrings her hands. He doesn't pay attention, until she screams for good; he stop swimming and raises his head early enough to avoid a tree branch as thick as his arm.

"It could have killed you!" she cries while he reaches the riverbank.

She goes on, apologizing profusely, as he climbs up on her mare. It would be wiser to place himself in front of her, but it's already done when he realizes it and, above all, it allows him to hold her in his arms. She leans against his chest, indifferent to his soaking wet clothes.

"Don't move and don't talk," he commands. "Never show how much you're afraid when you ride your mare. She could throw you to the ground."

She nods and gladly gives him the reins before they begin to cross. The mare's apprehension becomes obvious as soon as water comes up to her flanks. She snorts and makes strange noises, then refuses to move when they are half way. The stream seems even stronger than it was when he crossed. They're both immersed up to the waist while only the animal's head and upper part of the neck are visible. The mare doesn't move in spite of his heels pressing her flanks and he's thinking about dismounting in order to lead the horse, when it happens. In panic, the mare rears up and unhorses them; he falls into the river and a taste of mud fills his mouth. The Green Fork's depth, even in this spot, doesn't allow an adult to move unless he swims. When he realizes he hardly touches the bottom, anxiety overwhelms him. _Where is she?_

"Sansa!" he shouts. The only answer he gets comes from the mare, whinnying and unsuccessfully trying to reach the riverbank, her hooves scratching grass and willow switches. He looks around and begins to lose his head, when he sees her cloak floating on the surface. He hurries himself and finally lifts her in his arms. She seems unconscious and he barely has the time to wonder how much time she stayed sunken before she starts to spit out the water she swallowed. He lays her down on the grass while she opens her eyes and asks where is the mare. He jumps into the river and helps the animal hoist himself on the bank, then comes back to her. Leaning over her, as she catches her breath, he feels relief and soon becomes aware the water rolling on his cheek doesn't come from the river. However, he wipes his face and can't help taking her in his arms. She clutches at him, freezing in her wet clothes.

"I'm sorry," he says, cradling her.

"Don't be. You saved me, once more."

He gives in, rubbing her back and embracing her, even kissing her forehead, only stopping when he realizes that what was supposed to give her comfort looks more and more like a lover's caress.

* * *

There is an inn close to the ford: the timber frame house seems to sag, the dark beams of the façade holding the wattle and daub walls and preventing them from collapsing. A wooden sign, swaying above the front door, shows the thistle giving its name to the place. Every time he turns to her, he sees her shivering: by a stroke of luck, she won't have to wait a long time before washing herself and resting. As they come closer to the inn, they can hear men laughing and see some of the customers coming and going from the stables to the hall.

"It seems crowded," she says. "Is it good or bad?"

"We'll figure out soon," he answers, jumping from the saddle.

He helps her dismount, as a stable boy runs towards them and takes the reins of their horses. She hides behind his massive chest, as if the lad could do her any harm.

"Don't worry," he whispers, when the boy is gone. "Hood raised and quiet."

Her pale face nearly disappears and no one can see her auburn hair, protected by the muddy wool. But something in her attitude reveals her anxiety. Standing on tiptoe, she combs his dark hair in order to hide his burnt cheek.

"What are you fucking doing?" he rasps, taken by surprise.

"I don't want you to be recognized," she explains, stretching to reach his hood and placing it on his head.

She sighes, both ill-at-ease and concerned, while he swallows hard. It always seems that she does something very kind and tender before toying with his heart. _What is it going to be, this time? You already hurt me in so many ways..._

"You're my sister Willa and we're traveling to Saltpans, to see our uncle," he says, trying to regain his composure. "If you must call me, what's my name?"

"Jon. Like my brother Jon."

"You give me the bastard's name. A bastard's name for a man carrying a bastard sword. Fine," he says, frowning.

"Would you prefer 'Robb'?" she asks. "Since we're supposed to be common people, 'Jon' seems proper. It's an ordinary name..."

He shrugs, takes a good breath and leads the way to the door. Inside, a merry gathering of merchants and travelers would make someone believe war is over and summer is back. He feels a small hand grabbing his arm. _This is better._ There are two dozens of men, sat on every bench of the room, but none of them armed and none of them as tall as he is. Besides, they seem half-drunk. He turns to her, briefly.

"Wait for me here. I'll be right back."

She sits on the only bench left, her back to the door and he tries to find the inn-keeper. A dirty-blond girl of twenty makes her way through the customers, regularly stopped by some bawdy merchant. She finally shows him the kitchens, where he finds a plump little man and a scrawny white-haired. He looses time mistaking the plump one for the inn-keeper, then explains he wants a room, food for two persons and their horses. The skinny old man frowns at him, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at his filthy breeches. He shows a silver coin to coax him. The inn-keeper finally calls the blond girl and they both go back to where he left her. Before he's done four strides, he sees her with a middle-sized man, wearing a gray and blue cloak. She doesn't say anything but his manners seem way too bold: he's almost leaning over her, and offers wine. He hurries himself to her and she jumps on her feet as soon as she can, escaping the man's advances.

"... but where are you going to, little dove?" he says, unsteady on his feet.

She's already next to him and he feels her grabbing his arm, her fingers nearly scratching him through his wet tunic. That's when he hears another voice behind him.

"Is she so precious you hide her features with this stupid cloak?"

He turns around and sees a merchant of forty, clad in furs, sat on a bench and pouring wine in his cup. He's not drunk like the other one, nor dull-witted. He stares at them and makes him feels uneasy. He doesn't know, but he could figure out who they are.

"Stop making a fool of yourself," he tells his drunken companion, "and have a sit."

The merchant doesn't lower his gaze and even gives him a wry smile. He'd like to unsheathe his sword and set things in order right now, but they would have to fly away. And she needs to warm up and rest.

"Come on, sis," he rasps, glaring at the merchant. Wrapping her shoulders with his arm, he follows the blond maid in the staircase, still looking daggers at the two men sat on the bench.

* * *

**When I was writing this chapter, it seemed that every river around my place was in spate: I guess the description of the Green Fork comes from the consequences of the long, rainy winter in Western France... Thank you for reading, following or reviewing.**

**To AncolieRose: Thanks for your message and your encouragement. Your comments and reactions count a lot to me, so please keep on giving your opinion!**

**To Alexandra: I can't promise there will be no more arguments between them but when they do argue, they always make up afterwards... and that's the part we prefer, I guess. Hope you liked their reconciliation!**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**This chapter is rated M. Calm down, this is not what you think – at least, not yet. Let's say that teenagers drinking alcohol might be the routine where I grew up, but in a fan fiction...**

* * *

The room is bigger than what he expected and maybe cleaner. The blond girl watches them, arms crossed, and suddenly he wonders if she's the inn-keeper's daughter. He shuts the door, tries the bolt and shakes his head. He looks through the window: if they have to run away, it would lead them to the front door. Ridiculous.

"Find us another room," he commands.

She sighes and goes back to the corridor. They follow her upstairs, then she turns around, goes downstairs, and after a while, she opens another door. It's smaller, but the door seems fine and the window gives onto the back of the inn.

"This is better," he says. "My sister needs to take a bath and so do I. And we'll need to have our clothes washed. She'll need new clothes, too."

"I fell while we were crossing the Green Fork," she adds.

The blond girl seems to take pity of her and smiles gently.

"I have enough coin for that," he rasps.

The blond girl nods and leaves them, saying she'll come back with hot water. He shuts the door and stares at the poor little thing she's become since she almost drowned. She sits on the bed, a sagging old one close to the window, and sighes in relief. Except for a wobbly armchair and a table, the bed is the only piece of furniture.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he says, sitting at her feet.

"Are you crazy?" she protests. "Your back must be as sore as mine. I see you every morning stretching your legs because they're stiff. Why don't you...?"

"Because. It's better this way."

"As if you were going to..."

She stops short, suddenly shy. Then, in a determined tone, she says "If you sleep on the floor, I'll sleep by your side."

"Don't be foolish!"

"You're the one who's being foolish. It's absurd to sleep on the floor when we can share a bed. We do the same in the woods. Why is it different?"

He frowns. Quarreling with her always reminds him how slow-witted he is.

"I swear I'll wait til you're asleep, take the blanket and lay down by your side," she says.

He almost laughs: she would be able to do so, just to bother him. He leaves her and goes checking on the horses in the stable, takes the bag on Stranger's back – he's lucky the saddle-bag didn't fall in the Green Fork – and goes back to the room as the blond girl finishes pouring hot water in the barrel used as a tub. After the blond girl is gone, she looks at the steaming barrel, then at him, and bites her lower lip. He feels the urge to speak.

"Your shawl is dry, at least," he says, dropping it on the bed. "And I've got fresh clothes for me. Maybe not as fresh as you think, but they'll be useful... Turn around while I change, then I'll wait in the corridor. Just leave your clothes by the door and I'll..."

The green boy is back, though she's as awkward as he is himself, shifting from foot to foot. She sits on the bed and looks through the window while he goes to the other side to strip his clothes. He watches the muddy heap of his clothes, crumpled at his feet. Standing in the two opposite corners of the room seems so childish, as if being five strides from her could prevent him from doing what he's dying for. He glimpses at her over his shoulder; she's on her knees, very straight, looking into the distance. _No, not now. Behave yourself._ He puts on his new breeches and tunic, takes his filthy clothes and leaves the room. After a minute or two, he hears her calling him from inside. He opens the door carefully and grabs the pile she made with her wet clothes. She's already in her bath and all he can see is her shy little face sticking out of the water, staring at him. His cheeks burn and he shuts the door without a word. Even in the dim light of the corridor, he feels ashamed, both for his indiscreet look and for his boyish reaction. He brings her dress to his nose and breathes in, but her smell already vanished in the muddy water of the Green Fork. _How unfair._ He goes downstairs, finds the blond girl and gives her the filthy clothes and asks for a complete outfit for her. The girl isn't stupid; she understands she can make money selling one of her dress and tells him she'll be back soon. The hall is still crowded and it soon will be time for dinner. The travelers next to him are talking about the ford: it seems that nobody crossed the river last week, except them. They're all waiting for the drop in level and that's why there are so many people in the inn. He sits by the kitchens and sees the inn-keeper coming out, wiping his bony hands on his apron. The scrawny man turns to him and frowns.

"Is that true you're traveling with a girl? Where are you from?" he asks.

The man's hands smell of onion unless it is his breath. He glares at the inn-keeper, hoping he would go on his way.

"I heard you threatened one of the merchants..." the man insists.

Is it the thought of her naked in her bath while he's here, facing a stubborn and stinky man? Is it because he misses swordplay and fight? He jumps on his feet, looks down at the inn-keeper and knocks him backwards, pinning him to the wall. Terrified, the man opens his mouth but can't say a word, when he realizes his boots are swaying a foot above the floor.

"_This_ is threatening," he says in a whisper, as the inn-keeper gasps. "Don't mess with me." He lets go with him, and the skinny man collapses on the wooden floor. Every one is looking at them, now. How stupid he is. As he dusts his tunic, the blond girl comes back, carrying a pile of clothes. She praises the warm fabric of the brown dress she gives him, adds there are small-clothes too and pretend not to notice when he goes bright red. He gives her the price she asks for and hurries himself upstairs: it seems to him he left her hours ago. His heart beats fast as he knocks at the door and she tells him to come in. _What do you expect? She's not lying naked on the bed, waiting for you._ He takes a deep breath, opens the door slowly and sees her. Wrapped in her long shawl, she's on the bed, knelt by the window. Her long hair is still damp, but he's quite sure the hair-dye her aunt gave her faded away. She slightly turns to him and smiles shyly.

"You're back, at last."

_I've never seen anything so beautiful. You weren't that beautiful the first time I saw you, nor in the expensive gowns you wore in King's Landing. _

"Where have you been?" she asks. "The water is almost cold... I was waiting for you." Draped in her shawl – _his_ shawl – she moves in order to face him. "Are you all right?" she adds, a bit concerned.

He puts the pile of clothes on the bed, says it may be too big for her and goes back to the corridor. A minute later, she opens the door and lets him in.

"How do I look?" she asks, smiling and bowing. "You were right, it's too big."

The blond girl is not as slender as she is. Besides, she's a grown woman, pouring wine in her father's inn for saucy merchants and insolent knights: the low neckline of her dress makes him frown. This is bad; she doesn't need that to draw attention on her and he doesn't need to see so much skin to be tempted. He feels the blood hammering at his temples: she's expecting compliments but he's unable to utter a sound. So he stares at her and she finally smooths her skirts, uncomfortable.

"Hope you won't catch a cold," he rasps. It's the only thing he can say without being bawdy or clumsy.

"May I stay here while you take your bath?" she asks, lowering her gaze. "I don't want to go downstairs. I'll stay by the window."

He nods. She's already kneeling on the bed, going back to her favorite spot and watching in the distance. He turns his back to her, removes his clothes and goes into the barrel. Water is tepid and he sits back, allowing his sore limbs to rest for a while. The room is silent and the only noise comes from downstairs: men chatting and laughing. Their preoccupations seem so different from his: their trade, their way home, the blond girl's teats. His only matter of concern is sat behind him and he's going to share a bed with her. He'd better be clean: he scrubs his chest and limbs, cramped in the barrel, washes his hair, then realizes his nails are dark with filth. He reaches for his dagger left by his breeches, and begins to clean his nails with the sharp point. As he's doing this, he suddenly sees her reflection on the blade. She's not looking through the window; she's observing his damp hair and his shoulders. He smiles at the thought of her spying on him. Eddard Stark's precious daughter isn't so chaste, after all. He wonders what her septa would have said about it. Feeling mischievous, he suddenly rises, spattering water on the wooden floor. _How do I look?_ Behind him, he's pretty sure he's heard her repressing a cry of surprise when he emerged from water and he imagines she's becoming red. A sweet vengeance, after what she made him endure.

* * *

They both agreed on not dining downstairs: she's afraid someone could recognize them and he doesn't want to draw attention on him once more. He asks for food in the kitchens and soon comes back with a tray well-filled with stew, brown bread and jugs of water and wine. They begin to dine silently, the faint glow of the candle barely allowing them to see what they eat.

"The merchant scares me," she says all of a sudden.

"Maybe it's the inn-keeper we should distrust. He's a walking scumbag. "

"Did you argue with him?" she asks.

He winces and she sighes heavily. "Please don't tell me..."

"He's fine," he replies. "I thought I got things straight. But now I'm not so sure."

As she goes on eating silently, sat on the edge of the bed, he scrutinizes her. She was upset after his bath – because of what she saw? – and she must have composed herself while he was in the kitchens. Now she breathes calmly but there's something about her bearing that makes him think she's a bit tense. _That's too bad for you, my love. Maybe I should feel guilty about my little trick, but I'm not._ He sits back in the armchair, reaches for the jug of wine and fills his cup. Eyes closed, he has a sip of wine and when he meets her gaze right after that, she smiles.

"Is it that sour wine of Dorne you like so much?" she asks, putting aside the tray she ate on and getting up.

He nods and lets her take the cup from his hands. Standing in front of him, she raises the cup to her lips, slowly, almost reluctantly, takes a sip, then wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb. Mesmerized, he can't say a word; watching her drinking wine seems to him even more indiscreet than looking at her in her bath. He can't explain why, nor express it, but his inner turmoil is back, without a doubt.

"I remember you told me once a flagon of sour red was all a man needs," she says. "You didn't think I could remember that, but I recall everything you said back in King's Landing. Every piece of advice you gave me. I should have written a book with all the lessons you taught me."

_But do you remember how it ended? I told you all a man needs is sour red. Or a woman. Seems like I have both tonight. Or at least a woman sipping sour red._

She takes another sip, then looks at him.

"What am I supposed to feel?" she asks.

"Warmth," he answers after a while. "Oblivion."

"What do you want to forget?" Still in front of him, she smiles. Once he would have blame her for her simpering airs, but it's different, tonight. It's only curiosity about him.

"My misdeeds, I guess. And many dirty things I saw." _And the fact I'm unable to behave well when you're around. _

Watching her raising the cup to her lips for the third time makes his head spin. _How is that possible that she's drinking and I'm feeling dizzy? _

"You should sit down," he says, as if he could get rid of his giddiness this way. She obeys, still smiling, and sits down on the edge of the bed, so close to him her skirts brush his knee. He can't suppress a shudder and she doesn't miss it. It's strange to note how harmless things and innocent details become dangerous with her. Deciding he needs to take over the reins, he reaches for the cup and asks "And you, what do you want to forget?"

"You know what I want to forget," she whispers. "You saw everything, except the end of my betrothal to Joffrey and my wedding. You know what I've been through but... you're not giving anything away."

He should seize the opportunity and confide in her; that's what she's expecting from him. Still, he can't. For fear of feeling misunderstood or left behind again, he remains silent for a while, convinced that he's both rude and stupid.

"Talk to me," she begs.

"There was... There was a time," he begins, "when I couldn't sleep without being drunk."

With a far-away look in his eyes, he pauses, putting aside the cup of wine. Her skirts brushing his knee make him turn to her again.

"But you don't need wine to sleep now," she points out. "Every time I wake up during the night, you're asleep. What happened?"

He looks her straight in the eyes: how can't she understand that? He always thought he calls a spade a spade, but when it comes to her, he's unable to speak freely.

"What happened?" she repeats.

_Guess what have changed._ She may be brave and clever and beautiful, she still doesn't know how to read between the lines. He doesn't answer and keeps staring at her puzzled little face. Maybe it's better this way. When was the last time he drank away his troubles before he could close his eyes? Drink himself to death was what he intended to do just before he heard about her wedding with the Imp. He can't remember how many jugs of wine he had before the merchant gave him every detail about her wedding night, but he knows for sure he wasn't steady on his feet when he walked with him outside of the inn, to redress the insult the man had done to her. It wasn't the teeth the merchant lose that night that drove away his need for alcohol, nor the bruises on his knuckles after he beat him. But when he caught his breath and left the merchant squealing on the ground, dizziness had disappeared and he knew he could sleep well. He needed to find her and planned the next couple of weeks around this goal. Every night after that, while he was on the track of the Imp's wife – like the hound he's supposed to be – sleep came easily. He felt weary, confused and perhaps on edge but wine wasn't necessary: clinging to her image soothed him and dissipated insomnia.

She suddenly giggles, making him jump. Feeling awkward, she stands up. In two strides, she's by his side, pouring wine in the cup and sipping it. It seems she needs to put herself together before she can speak.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I was thinking about the black look you gave to the merchant."

_Looks like I have something against merchants._

"I mean... I'm glad you were there to protect me, but... in a way, it was funny. You looked like two dogs fighting over a bone."

He frowns. "And you would be that bone? Seven hells, you must be drunk to dare call me a dog. You had enough of wine, by the way." Her cheeks glow and she seems about to fall; he takes the cup and puts it away from her.

"You don't understand," she protests. "I'm not laughing at you. Without you, I don't know where I would be now. I don't know how I can thank you enough..." she adds, leaning towards him.

Getting on his feet, he looks down at her, determined and severe. She steps back and nearly stumbles before he grabs her arm.

"You're talking nonsense. Time to go to bed, girl: when I'll be back, you'd better be ready to sleep."

He leaves the room, trying to ignore her begging look.

* * *

When he comes back, she's already in bed. He managed not to threaten anyone downstairs or to get involved in some argument, though he felt unfriendly looks and suspicion all around him. Now, he's weary and sits on the edge on the bed to take off his boots. The mattress is sagging a little and he feels awkward. She's right behind him, silent but awake, paying close attention to his movements. He's about to remove his tunic when he sees her new dress lying on the armchair: she must be wearing some long shirt the blond girl sold him with the rest. _Not safe: she should have kept her dress._ He sighes and decides to sleep fully clothed: maybe it's as stupid as all he did since he came in this place, but it doesn't matter. He blows out the candle, then lies down, railing against the damn bed because it's too small, trying to stay in what could be his half of the mattress. This is so unfamiliar: he never shared a bed with anyone, since he left Clegane's Keep for Casterly Rock. Even as a child, he would sleep alone. When in a brothel, he would pay, do what he paid for and leave right after that. The whores weren't exactly pleased with such a taciturn and frightening guest: his stags and moons bought their services but he knew they would breathe easier after he was gone. He couldn't blame the whores for that: he experienced the same alleviation when he was alone again, free from the curious looks. As the rain begins to fall, she shifts and turns to him.

"You should sleep," he says.

"I can't. Do you remember I've got a decision to make? Winterfell or Essos."

She pauses and all he can hear for a few heartbeats is the rain drumming on the window.

"I was wondering about Essos," she suddenly adds. "I mean... what is it going to be like, living out there?"

"Do I look like a fucking traveler? Or like one of those bloody merchants sailing across the Narrow Sea? I never left Westeros," he answers, immediately wishing he could take back his words.

"I thought... I thought you'd been in the Free Cities," she whispers. "I thought you knew where to go and what we could find there."

Did it start right after they cross the Green Fork? Or did he feel this impression before? She seems to trust him so deeply she's surprised and disappointed every time he shows some weakness. A whistling noise coming from the window creates a diversion.

"What the hell is it?" he asks.

"A draft," she answers softly. "The window's frame is almost rotten. I'm cold."

Whereas he curses the inn-keeper and his lacking in foresight, she comes closer.

"We could go to Tyrosh," he finally says. "I could work as a sellsword out there and rent a house for both of us."

"What would I do?"

"You'll have to find out what's going on in Westeros if you want to come back someday. And you could cook for me, as well," he teases her.

"You live dangerously, Sandor," she warns him in the same tone.

She huddles up to him, suddenly serious.

"What's wrong?" he rasps.

"I'm scared," she says. "Albett threatening you, the Green Fork, the merchants here... You said I was a prey and that's exactly how I feel."

She smells of soap and her hair is still damp when he wraps his arm around her waist.

"Try to get some sleep," he whispers. "I'm looking after you."

* * *

**Thanks, once again, for reading. If you liked this chapter, please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Rated M for violence.**

**Chapter 12**

Waking up in a bed feels unfamiliar after months spent sleeping out. For a moment, he believes he's still in the Red Keep, in his room so empty, so humble with those blank walls it looked like a cell. But he used to have more space when he slept in the Kingsguard's quarters. When he stretches out and opens his eyes, he remembers: she's right here, her long auburn braid glowing in the first ray of light. He's lying on one side and so she does, her back to him. They slept curled under the blankets, his arm wrapped around her, as if he was afraid she could escape. He doesn't know what to think: he promised to himself he would stay on his side of the bed. _Fucking sagging mattress_, he thinks, then his own bad faith makes him grin: the mattress has nothing to do with it. She slightly moves her head, then rolls on the other side to face him. When it's done, she quietly replaces his hand on her waist. _Be careful._

"Did you sleep well?" he asks.

She nods and smiles gently. She raises her hand to his face and removes the dark hair from his burnt cheek, brushes his scars. _This is too good to be true._ It feels so different from the first times she dared to look at him he can't say a word. He wishes he could speak, show he's not impressed or moved by what she's doing but it's a lost cause. So he doesn't move, doesn't say anything and just seizes the moment. After a while, her eyes leave his features to wander over his neck, his collar-bone, his chest, then back to his face. Is she blushing or is it the changing light of daybreak? All of a sudden, he feels – but how in Seven Hells is that possible? – attractive. Not handsome, no, he's not the fucking Knight of Flowers, but she sees _something_ in him. His heart beats wildly. Does she feel so awkward when he drools in front of her? All this is so strange, really. He feels dizzy and could do any stupid thing when she looks at him this way. Clearing his throat, he gets up and puts his belt on, while she stares at him, vaguely disappointed.

"You spoke last night," she states, pulling the blanket to her chin.

It sounds like an attempt to keep him close to her and he likes it. "When I was asleep? What did I say?"

"Nothing important," she answers, going bright red.

He can't help smiling; what could he say to make her blush but pretend it's not important?

"Was I rude?" he asks, growing more confident. "I bet you didn't like it."

"I didn't say so."

She manages to get on her feet without turning her face to him, but he's pretty sure her cheeks are crimson. The long white shirt seems too big for her thin body, as she walks on tiptoe towards the armchair. She puts her dress on, not caring about his eyes on her, then sitting on the edge of the bed to lace up the bodice.

"Will you tell me some day?" he asks, standing on his left foot as he puts on his boot.

The blue eyes meet his. "Maybe, maybe not."

This look could make him lose his balance and fall; he holds himself up with the bed frame. She seems very proud of herself suddenly. He comes closer, towering above her and pretending to frown.

"What if I demand that you tell me?"

The girl he knew in King's Landing would have cowered and avoided his gaze. Instead of shaking and mumbling excuses, she looks him straight in the eyes and says "You may threaten the merchants downstairs or frighten the inn-keeper, but it doesn't work on me, Sandor."

All is said: she's aware of the influence – the power, maybe – she has on him, and she's ready to use it, with this teasing smile he gets acquainted with. He feels slow-witted, once more, and clears his throat.

"I'm going to ask for water, so that you can wash your face before going. And some food, too."

He leaves her with regret and every second downstairs is a torture; the kitchen maid seems lazy and takes her time to give him food. And when it's ready, the lad he saw in the stables fetches water from the well. After what seems to him hours, he finally goes back to their room and sees the door ajar. Her voice sounds determined, though her high-pitched tone reveals her fear.

"... but I don't understand," she says. "What do you want from me?"

He comes in all of a sudden and finds her facing the inn-keeper, who beats a retreat behind the barrel as soon as he recognizes him. He puts the food on the tables, shuts the door and looks at the innkeeper swallowing hardly.

"I know exactly who you are," the man mumbles. "The Hound and Lord Baelish's bastard daughter. But my Ella doesn't think so. She says she may be some high-born girl, with her good manners and-"

The skinny man stops short when he throws himself on him. The inn-keeper stumbles, then finds himself pinned against the wall. His ugly features tense with terror in front of an even uglier face.

"I thought I made it clear," he says in a low voice. "Maybe it was a mistake not to kill you in the first place."

"Stop it," she begs, behind him. "You don't need to do that."

"You don't know anything," he groans. "I'll take care of this."

"The same way you took care of Albett?" she snaps back.

Still holding the innkeeper's collar, he turns to her.

"And what kind of trophy will you keep, this time? A jug of wine, after the dagger?" she asks. Despite her mocking tone, she's on the verge of tears. She comes closer and puts her small hand on his arm.

"Leave me be," he says, eyes closed. "Who do you think you are? The Mother, full of mercy?"

His sarcasm doesn't touch her; her blue eyes meet his and she whispers "Let go with him. You promised we would make our decisions together and I beg you to spare this man."

He wonders what she's ready to do here and now to save their uninvited guest, then releases him. The scrawny man rubs his neck, mumbling both apologies and thanks. She gives him a cold look.

"You'll give us food for three days at least and everything my friend demands," she orders. "If _anything_ happens, I only have to send a raven to Riverrun to get your head on a spike. Is that clear?"

"Yes, m'lady," says the man, holding himself up with the wall and moving backwards to the door. When they're alone, she sighs heavily.

"You must be mad," he rasps. "And what was that stupid threat about Riverrun? Now he knows for sure who you are!"

His heart beats faster as he thinks of all the consequences. "At least, you prevented me from killing another man and committing a sin. I would probably thank you if I was a fucking believer, since we're about to die and meet the Seven."

"You shouldn't talk like that." She sits on the bed, her eyes shining with anger. "He won't tell anyone."

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

"People like him fear us. We came here as common people and his instinct told him it was a lie. All I did was setting things in order: he knows I'm a lady and I talked to him like a lady would do. He'll do as I said."

Her tone is sharp and cold: he never thought she could react like that. Is this the kind of lesson she learned with Cersei?

"I'm sorry I shout," he starts, sitting next to her, but she shrugs. "The old dog was trying to protect you."

"Stop calling yourself a dog," she whispers.

"So what am I? Your friend, as you told the skinny one?"

The word "friend" hurts him in a way. _"Friend" is not enough, my love. Call me a lover, a paramour, a swain, a wooer, even a husband if you want, but not a friend. And I'm not your friend when we play together like we did the night I kissed you or this morning: I deserve more than that. _She turns to him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"I had to call you something. Better call you a friend than a dog," she says in same sharp tone than before.

Her answer appalls him but he tries not to show anything. He grits his teeth and gets on his feet. It's time to know whether the innkeeper will betray them or not: he leaves her without a word, his hand grabbing the pommel of his bastard sword. At first, all seems normal: a few men are talking downstairs and he suddenly feels angry about what she told him. She doesn't have a right to be so cruel, to rebuff him as she did. _I didn't have the right to steal her, nor to make her follow me in the woods. I shouldn't be __so confident with her; some shit always happens and breaks... what? My hopes? As if I could harbor the __hope of..._

A scream coming from the outside makes him jump and he takes the stairs two by two, then opens the outside door. In the backyard, he recognizes the stable boy, terrified, urging himself from the stables.

"He's dead," he squeaks. "Dead! And Ella..."

He grabs the boy's arm and leads him back to the stables. There are few horses now that many customers left and he sees two forms lying on the straw, near Stranger. The first one is the inn-keeper, who collapsed in a strange position, his skinny legs open and his belly exposed. Someone slit his throat. Next to him, the blond girl huddles up, disheveled and sobbing. Her dress is torn and spattered with blood. _A bloody dress, as in my nightmare. _

"What happened?" he shouts to the stable boy, a bony lad of fourteen, hiding his freckles under a shock of dirty-blond hair.

The boy shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent, then tries to escape again. That's when she comes in, her shawl hiding her features. He immediately turns to her and grabs her upper arms, preventing her from seeing the dead man.

"I saw you from upstairs. You rushed in the stables," she starts. "I was worried."

"Go back to the room," he says in a low voice. "You're not supposed to be here..."

Despite his efforts and the half-light, she catches sight of the corpse.

"What happened?" she finally asks, wide-eyed with terror.

"I found them lying here. I swear!" cries the lad, regaining his ability to speak. "My father took Ella to help him. Said he wanted to prepare your horses himself. Why is that, I don't know."

As the lad stands shivering next to the door, he squats in front of the sobbing girl, ready to ask her who attacked them, but she starts screaming. Before he can say anything, skirts brushing his left side warn him she's there, so close from the inn-keeper she might be able to see his bulging eyes and the deep red cut on his throat. She kneels beside the blond girl and cradles her. The girl sobs even more in her arms, but stops screaming.

"Who did that to you?" she asks her. "Who killed your father?"

Clutching to her, the girl tries to comb her blond hair.

"My father told me you were leaving, m'lady," she stutters. "That we had to hurry and give you some food."

He suddenly sees apples and a loaf of bread behind Stranger's hind leg.

"So I gave him a hand and he told me you were..." she stops short and looks at him. "He said I was right about you when they came. The two men who were bothering you last night. The one wearing furs asked my father who you were. He asked him but he already _knew_... he just wanted to be sure."

"What did you father tell him?"

"Nothing. I swear, m'lord," she says, gasping. "He wouldn't tell them anything. That's why he killed my father. The other one was holding me and..."

The girl pulls on her skirts, ashamed and weeping, soon hiding her face in Sansa's shawl.

"It's over," she tells the girl. "You'll be safe now."

When she meets his eyes, she seems both weary and determined. He tilts his head to show her they need to speak and leads her outside. She wraps herself in the shawl, making sure nobody can see her hair in the morning sun.

"You were right," he rasps. "The merchants were more dangerous than the innkeeper. What do you think?"

He doesn't want her to say he decided for both. Even if he knows exactly what should be done.

"We have a duty towards these people," she answers. "We have to protect them. Do justice. "Her voice is clear as she goes on. "I was right about the innkeeper too. He didn't betray us. At least, he deserves to have his murderers punished. Besides, they know who we are."

"Do we agree on this?" he asks. "You want me to find those bastards and kill them? You're not going to tell me..."

She cuts him off. "Nobody cares for this girl. Nobody dispenses justice here. There's only you. And we're at war."

He would have done anything to spare her from learning such a bitter lesson, but it's too late. She fights back her tears, then adds they should probably go now. He shakes his head.

"You're not going anywhere. It's far too dangerous. And I don't want you to see... You know."

She never thought he would leave her in the inn: startled, she shifts from foot to foot.

"You'll be safe here. And I'll be back before sunset," he promises.

She doesn't say anything but she gives him a begging look and when he grabs her upper arm, repeating he'll come back soon, she puts her small hand on his. His old self would have laugh at her ladylike manners, but he changed: he squeezes her arm so firmly his fingers will probably leave marks on her skin. When he releases his hold, she follows him in the stables again. The blond girl sits on the straw, staring into space. She doesn't move or scream while he squats in front of her.

"Those merchants, where did they go?"

"They're not merchants, m'lord," she says. "They buy and sell, aye, but I heard them talk. The drunkard, the one who-"

She stops short, looking at her brother with a mix of shyness and anger. Understanding she's ashamed, he makes a gesture and sends the lad outside.

"I heard him talking about the Vale. They're Baelish's eyes and ears. They were looking for you, m'lord."

"Where did they go?"

"Eastward, m'lord. To the Eyrie. They have good horses but crossing the Green Fork will be difficult, anyway."

"Weapons?"

"Some. Enough to butcher my father."

She looks at the dead man briefly, then dares to meet his eyes.

"What do you want to do?" she asks.

"I'll find them," he rasps. "Your father's inn will be closed today. Send them away. Each and everyone." Then he turns to Sansa. "Lock yourself upstairs with the girl."

* * *

She insisted on giving her bed to the poor girl, so she stands in front of him, ready to say goodbye. She helped him with his mail, her hands both clumsy and gentle on his chest. Now she wrings her hands with apprehension, staring at him. Carrying the saddlebag under his arm, he feels awkward. _What am I supposed to say?_

"You'll take good care of her, I bet," he starts. "I'll be back before sunset."

She's fighting back tears and he would gladly take her in his arms and kiss her right here, but the girl's curious look persuades him not to do so.

"If I don't come back, send a raven to Riverrun. You'll be safe out there."

"I don't want to..."

"Don't be silly. No matter what you may find in Riverrun, it would be better than to fall into Baelish's clutches," he says.

He pats her upper arm, perhaps a little too briskly. She steps forward, then raises her hand to his burnt cheek. He never told her he doesn't feel anything on this side, but it's not relevant. Her blue eyes beg him not to go and for a few heartbeats all she made him endure is forgotten.

"Please come back," she whispers. "Come back safe and sound."

Nobody ever expressed such concern about him before the battles he fought. During Robert's rebellion, he was just a boy and the closest thing he experienced to kindness was Tywin Lannister's insistence on filling his cup with wine and sending his personal maester to tend his wounds. Years later, during the Battle of the Blackwater, his dwarf son wasn't so attentive when he told him to go back to the battlefield, regardless of the wildfire raging on the riverbank. Those days are done, obviously. Earlier, she agreed on the fact he had to hunt down these men but her eyes now say "Don't go."

Clenching his jaw, he looks at her and leaves, shutting the door carefully. Outside, the sun is shining, despite the cold wind. The lad did his part, sending away everyone and in the stables, the innkeeper's murder left no trace except the straw, sticky with blood. He saddles up Stranger, leads him outside and catches sight of her, looking through the window. If she was alone in their room he would go back upstairs and kiss her, for sure. Instead of listening to his impulse, he lets Stranger feel his spurs. His horse seems rested after a night spent in the stables. Glad to exercise and delighted by the sunny weather, he snorts and begins to trot. Both master and horse leave behind them the timber frame house and its thistle painted in green and purple on a wooden sign. _Are you really waiting for my return or are you afraid to stay alone in this gods-forsaken hole? What are you going to do today? Help the innkeeper's daughter and comfort her or let her brother talk to you and make you smile? I saw the way he was looking at you. He's almost of an age with you. But you ignored him. Even when he asked if you wanted something after we came back from the stables, you didn't answer._

He's still brooding over her behavior when he catches a glimpse of the ford; the drop in level of the Green Fork is not obvious, but the merchants crossed the river anyway and he has to do the same. Despite Stranger's apprehension, he leads him to the river bank and they come into the water. The horse shows his disapproval, whinnying and moving under him. He nevertheless makes him progress towards the other side, ignoring the muddy water soaking his boots and breeches. When they finally reach the river bank, he turns around. She's out there, waiting for him, and he'd better hurry himself. Find those bastards, put them out of harm's way and come back to her: a fine program for a sunny day.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading! I had more time to write lately, so I wanted to update earlier before getting back to my routine and post a chapter next Thursday. Hope you enjoyed this one...**

**Reviews are always appreciated. Your feedback is important to me and even gives me ideas for next chapters, so feel free to give your opinion. I'll make sure to answer quickly.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Rated M for violence.**

**Chapter 13**

Stranger's flanks are dry now, but the Green Fork left a muddy crust as a testimony of their crossing, so much so he has an odd look: yellow up to the chest, but his back and head are as black as night. His breeches are yellow with mud, as well, but he doesn't care; they cross the fields and woods at full gallop, eager to find the merchants before the mid-afternoon. _If I want to come back before sunset, as I told you... _For the first time since he stole her from Petyr Baelish, he's alone. At the beginning, he realized he didn't need to wait for her or to turn round to be sure she was following him. Speed felt good: he gave free rein to Stranger and let him canter first, then gallop. Stranger seemed to appreciate; one could have said the horse was as in the same hurry as his master to get it over with the innkeeper's murderers. However, he soon became aware there was something different and uncomfortable. She wasn't there, struggling not to be left behind. He couldn't talk to her, nor tease her. _I left you only two hours ago, but I miss you. What are you doing right now?_

He met few people; war forced the inhabitants to shyness, and autumnal weather did the rest. All those who can stay at home shut themselves up. The only peasant he saw told him two rich merchants came through the wood where the poor fellow was gathering kindling. They'll soon have to stop to eat something and this may be the best opportunity to take them unawares: he lets Stranger feel his spurs once more and the cold wind bites his good cheek. They can't ride as fast as he does and they don't even know he's here, chasing them. It will be child's play.

He only slows down when he notices a plume of smoke in the distance. As he comes closer, he sees a small fire burning in a clearing and two silhouettes. Their horses, one bay and one white as milk, are tied to a tree. The same yellow crust as Stranger's mucks their legs and flanks. _Beautiful horses, indeed, but their saddle-bags seem too heavy for them..._ The one the blond girl called "the drunkard" is making water against a tree, while his companion stares at the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. His furs make him look as wide as he was tall. _What kind of cold-blooded animal are you to wear all these furs and still need to warm up your hands like this?_ Yet, this one might be dangerous and carry some weapon in his belt or his boots. He chooses to stand in their way to the horses, so that they can't escape. The drunkard is the first one to see him; he laughs not to show his apprehension.

"Here you are! Where's the little dove?" he yells.

"She's not here," he answers as the other one turns to him. "Seems that we all crossed the Green Fork this morning. You're going to the Vale, right?"

The merchants look at each other, puzzled: they didn't expect to meet him. The drunkard goes back to the fire and stands next to his friend. This one rubs his bald head and starts "What do you want?"

"Nothing you can buy with your fucking gold, I'm afraid. With the likes of you, I prefer to make deals and settle accounts using good steel."

He draws his bastard sword and the north wind seems to petrify them.

"What? You should be happy to have a more tenacious enemy than this poor innkeeper."

"Lord Baelish..." says the drunkard. "He's waiting for us. And if we don't come back-"

"Baelish doesn't give a shit about you. He'll replace you with a snap of his fingers."

"You may be right: he'll replace us. And you'll never breathe easy, as long as you travel with the girl," warns the bald one. "You should tell us where she is and try to escape now. It is more than time."

He carefully approaches his opponents. The old one draws a dagger from his belt, slowly moves to his left side and seems to challenge him, while the drunkard almost disappears from his range of vision. _Do they think I'm so stupid?_ He turns around all of a sudden and his blade easily finds the drunkard's stomach. When he sees the drunkard's livid face, he remembers the blond girl huddled up on the straw and the rage overwhelms him: instead of pulling his sword from the man's belly, he tightens his grip on the pommel and willingly opens his abdomen. In a gasp, the drunkard tries to hold his bowels with his hands, then falls on his knees and collapses. He turns around once again to face the bald merchant and that's when he feels a burning pain on his left shoulder. The merchant somehow managed to stab him with his dagger. The ache makes his head spin and he nearly releases his sword. He counters his opponent's move with a swift blow and tries to go back to the horses to prevent him from fleeing. The merchant hesitates, but he knows he can't defeat him with a dagger. After two or three attempts, the bald man gives up and runs away in the woods, leaving him out of breath, with the horses. His wound is bleeding and he first does his best to stop it with a piece of cloth from the drunkard's cloak. When it's done, he decides to hide the corpse under branches. As he's not able to carry the merchant's body, he drags him on the ground, leaving a bloody trail on the leaves. Then, holding the reins of the horses, he begins to progress slowly in the wood. The bald merchant hides himself somewhere, waiting for him to collapse because of his wound or to fall asleep – the sun is already fading. He realizes he won't come back before sunset as he told her: how is she going to react? What if he doesn't find the merchant? He goes on, as silent as possible with the horses. It's only a matter of time, he knows it: his enemy is a wealthy man, unable to travel on foot or to survive in the woods. The merchant will try to get his horse back, so he should be patient. Carefully, holding his breath, he walks in the undergrowth and only stops at dusk.

* * *

The horses are tied together, so that the merchant will have to face Stranger and his unpredictable behavior before he could grab the reins of his own horse. Despite the suffering and lack of strength due to his injury, he removed the saddles from the horses' back, in order to complicate matters if the merchant tries a sneak attack. He's sat, his sore back leaning against a tree trunk, his bastard sword in his lap. He ate half the bread and dried meat the blond girl gave him, hoping some food could make him feel better. He's ready to spend the night here, until his enemy shows up. But he's worried about her. He should be out there, holding her in his arms or staring at her like the stupid dog he is. When he was the Lannisters' dog, he would have done this without complaining: sleeping out in spite of the cold, waiting for his prey to come, choosing the best way to get rid of him. He would have laughed, thinking of the maester's horrified gaze in front of his wound. But it's over; he must be aging, for real, because he sees no point in boasting about his wounds or sleeping miles away from her. She makes him weak, that's right, but the truth is, he doesn't care. _What are you doing now that you realized it's pitch dark and I won't come back before tomorrow? Did you stay all day with the blond girl or did you talk to her brother? Did he make you giggle, as a girl of fourteen should do?_ His jealousy towards a stable boy only reveals he's an asshole.

The woods are so still he can hear the night birds flying, searching their preys. He should focus on his task as they are, despite the cold wind, despite his thoughts always leading him back to her. There was a song about night birds his mother used to sing, when he was a boy. It was so sad she usually cried at the end; or maybe her mother was such a melancholic woman this song was the only one fitting her mood. Anyway, the last verses always disappeared in her sobbing.

"_A sad bird I am in the loneliness of night_

_Afar from birds of my kind, afar from light_

_Deprived of my love, I became once again_

_Bird of ill omen, warning the profane_

_I confide in those rocks my ordinary pain_

_Those most secret rocks where I wander in vain_

_Echo only speaks when I finish my grievance_

_Until the sun rises and forces me to silence..."_

He keeps his ears open, and grabs the pommel of his sword. Fallen leaves rustle for a few heartbeats and he suddenly sees an owl, seizing a mouse and flying away.

* * *

Hours passed: he probably dozed off a few times. Neither his mother's song nor the thought of his enemy waiting in the dark managed to keep him awake. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her and this vision is too tempting to be ignored. Finally, he allows himself to think about what he would do or tell her in a few hours, when he'll be back. That is to say if he finds the merchant, gets rid of him and goes back to the inn without difficulty. He raises his hand to his wounded shoulder and notices his tunic soaked with blood, under his mail. Not dry blood; it's wet, a proof he's still bleeding. He curses silently. His shoulder is numb and he may be feverish: it could explain why he couldn't stay awake. It's almost daybreak and his enemy will be here soon, unless he chose to travel on foot. All of a sudden, the end of his mother's song comes to his mind.

"_The very day I lose my radiant sun_

_My hopes I buried, my life was done_

_A dark and dismal veil blindfolded me_

_Eagle, I spread my wings in her brightness_

_Fate seized her: such a cruel decree!_

_Once living on her light, now on darkness"_

But does the song really end like this? The last verse seems odd; perhaps it was different. If it's not _"Once living on her light, now in darkness"_ then what is it? He tries to recall the song, then gives up. After all, this is nonsense: it's about a man mourning his beloved and he's not mourning anyone, he only wants to come back to her. "Come back safe and sound" she said. He partly failed already, with this damn cut on his shoulder.

"_A sad bird I am in the loneliness of night_

_Afar from birds of my kind, afar from light..."_

Behind him, he hears a rustling; it's too loud to be some animal this time. He barely has the time to get on his feet and grab his sword. The bald man is here, a mad look on his face. In the first light of dawn, the merchant seems as miserable as he is himself and beats a retreat as soon as he sees his bastard sword. Giving up the idea of taking back his horse, the merchant begins to run away so he follows him. The man is trying to tire him out, which is not so stupid, but he's trained, used to make long efforts. And the woods are a treacherous place for one who lived a comfortable life. When the merchant stumbles on a root and falls, he knows it's nearly over. The man tries to get up but it's too late. He could ask him why he killed the innkeeper or what information Littlefinger has about them, of course. But he's out of breath and he just wants to make an end of this. _Is this blood lust? Am I a monster to focus on killing him rather than asking him what he knows?_ His sword digs in his chest, the layers of furs only slowing the process. The man cries, at first, then he hears blood gurgling in his throat, then nothing. His blade might be stuck in the thick furs spattered with blood, he still needs it : ignoring the excruciating pain in his left shoulder, he waves his sword to cut off the merchant's head.

* * *

The backyard is still muddy and quiet when he goes back, leading the merchants' horses. He finally made it, though he lose his way twice and feels dead tired. She hurries herself out of the inn and stops in front of Stranger in a daring attitude she would have called folly a week ago. Even dismounting is difficult with his sore shoulder; he almost fall from his saddle and stands as straight as he can, more leaning on his horse than patting his neck. She hesitates when the lad shows up; he's pretty sure she wants to hug him, but she doesn't move and stares at him. Her eyes are red. Around her neck, he notices a necklace he never saw; a thin brown cord and a small seven pointed star.

"You're wounded," she says. "What happened?"

He gives the reins of the three horses to the boy, then asks him to take the saddle-bag carried by the white one.

"Where's the girl?" he rasps. "I've got gifts for her."

The blond girl slowly steps out of the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Maybe you should go back in the house and wait for us," he tells Sansa.

"I'll stay here," she answers in a stubborn tone, her eyes still red.

Opening the saddle-bag, he curses in a low voice because of the pain, takes two bundles of rags and puts them on the ground. He removes the soiled fabric so they can see the heads; the blond girl gasps in surprise but doesn't say a word. He notices her clenched fist as she scrutinizes the features of her father's murderers. As for Sansa, she grabs his hand and clutches to it, repressing a grimace of disgust. It's a bloody mess, actually: he didn't manage to behead them properly with his sore shoulder, so the neck of the bald merchant is all mashed. He's about to explain why the cut is so dirty when he remembers they just don't want him to go into detail.

"This is enough," he rasps. "Now that you know they dead, you should tell your brother to get rid of this."

The blond girl nods, says she's going to heat up some water for his bath and leaves them. Still holding her hand, he leads her away from the evidences of his murders. _After all, it was no more, no less than a murder._ He cups her face in both his hands and forces her to look at him. Obviously, she cried.

"What happened to your eyes?" he asks.

"Nothing. What happened to your shoulder?"

"Later. Are you all right?"

She nods, says he must be hungry, so he follows her inside. As he sits on a bench in the empty room, she goes to the kitchens and he seizes the opportunity to talk to the blond girl.

"What happened to her eyes?" he asks in a low voice.

"She cried."

"I can see that. But why?"

"For the same reason she didn't sleep last night," she sighs. "She insisted on sharing her bed with me because we were both scared. I was grateful. At first. But she spent the night shifting in the bed so I couldn't sleep either."

"Did she say why?" he insists.

"Are you _that_ stupid? She was waiting for you."

She shakes her head as if he was the biggest moron she had ever seen. He notices she didn't call him "my lord": it seems that you're not a lord anymore when you offer two ugly heads to someone. It's only when he sees her coming back with a bowl of stew he realizes what the blond girl said. She missed him and worried about him. And now she's sat across from him, observing his bad manners and his odious habit of gobble down his food. Once the bowl is empty, he looks at her, a bit ashamed, and she smiles.

"Let's go upstairs," she says. "You'll take a bath, then we'll see what we can do with that cut."

In their room, the barrel is already filled with hot water and she gives him fresh clothes. He sits heavily on the edge on the bed.

"Can you help me?" he asks, feeling miserable. He's not able to remove his mail or his tunic.

She comes closer and stands in front of him. Her hands are less clumsy than the last time; today, her movements are gentle and even tender. When she sees his shoulder, she almost screams: his chest is covered with dried blood. He does what he can to reassure her, but she seems concerned. Before leaving, she helps him remove his damp boots and says she'll be waiting downstairs.

* * *

The blond girl gave her everything she needed to tend his wound: she comes back with needles, towels and even a bottle filled with a colorless liquid.

"What's this?" he asks, suspiciously.

"Apple brandy," she answers in a triumphant tone. "Ella says it's even better than boiled wine to clean a wound."

She stands in front of him as he's sat on the edge of the bed, only wearing his breeches, and begins to clean the wound carefully, with slow movements. Obviously, she can't help looking at his chest. _But are you concerned by my scars or are you just feasting your eyes on my torso? _

"What did you do yesterday?" he asks, wishing to put an end to the oppressive silence.

"I tried to comfort Ella and I watched over her. But... Ella is quite stubborn. She didn't complain and said she wanted to work. So we worked. We... prepared everything for her father's burial, we collected fruits and vegetables in the garden. She cleaned the rooms while I was downstairs, busy with my needles. Did you notice one of your sleeves was all torn? I mended your tunic."

"That's very kind of you."

"I'm sorry but this is not something I can fix," she says, pointing at his shoulder. "It's deep. A maester should take care of you."

She stops cleaning his wound, frowning at him.

"Isn't that a chain, around your neck?" he teases, reaching out for the small seven pointed star.

"Ella gave it to me," she explains, laughing.

"Ella?" he repeats. "I thought it came from her brother."

"Symon? Why would he give me something?"

_Because he's a boy and you must be the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. At least, we have this in common. _

"Did he talk to you?" he asks and he immediately rues his jealousy and the bloody fool he is. "He seems nice. He's of an age with you."

"Symon barely talked to me. Good for him that Ella's here to take care of everything since he can't make a decision. You scare him, by the way. To be honest, Symon is a babe. He can't even fight."

The note of disdain in her tone thrills him.

"So you prefer grown men with a gift for swordplay?" he asks, with a wolfish smile.

She blushes and pretends to focus on his wound, while he enjoys her embarrassment, forgetting what's she's about to do. He only jumps when she begins to stitch his wound.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says in a sheepish tone. "I should have warned you."

But she's not sorry at all: he can tell from the sparkle of mischief in her blue eyes that she's playing with him. _Very good. I missed our game, as well._ He doesn't want to hide his attraction towards her, today, so he allows him to stare at her until she goes bright red. An awkward silence wraps them both; she avoids his gaze and seems hurried to end her task, but her hands linger on his shoulder every time she has a chance. When it's over, he can read both relief and regret on her face.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," she whispers.

He can't say if she's talking about his wound or about all she did before, but she looks so vexed he takes her small hand in his and brings it to his lips. Her hand is cool and soft; his kisses, as clumsy as they might be, seem to delight her. Smiling, she strokes his chin, in spite of his beard.

"I need a shave," he says, in an apologetic tone.

"Let me do that for you," she asks.

He's barely understood her offer when she cups his face in both her hands and begins to scrutinize his good cheek. As she makes him turn his head, he feels like a toy in her hands. _Well, as long as you're not toying with my heart..._

"What am I, for you?" he rasps. "Some sort of doll? You undress me, you take care of me, now you want to shave me... What's the next stage? You're going to feed me like a child?"

"You've already been fed," she answers, laughing. "I'll put you to bed afterwards."

That's when he realizes that he, the Lannisters' dog, the deserter who likes saucy japes and bawdy songs, is blushing. She seems so proud of herself at this moment he cannot stay silent. He desperately looks for something brilliant to say, but she forestalls him.

"You know well I'm too old for playing with dolls," she adds, in a provocative tone.

He blinks, genuinely horrified, and finally regains the ability to speak.

"I feel guilty, really. I've such a bad influence on you. Ten days in my company and you begin to forget your septa's lessons about modesty. What... what will you do next? Sing _Meggett Was a Merry Maid_?"

Laughing again, she leaves him to fetch hot water and fresh towels. When she's back with a basin of water, he can see the same sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

"Get dressed," she commands. "I don't want you to say my behavior was inappropriate."

"I'm afraid I can't. Will you give me a hand?" he says, repressing a smile.

She complies and helps him with his tunic, then fetches the razor in the saddle-bag. When everything is ready, she freezes, hesitating. Standing in front of him doesn't seem very practical and sitting next to him would be worse because he's taller than her.

"Sit on my lap. I won't do anything..." he says, suddenly earnest. "Seven Hells, it was a mistake. You shouldn't take care of me this way... Who cares if I grow a beard?"

"I care." She sits on his lap, willingly yet carefully.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks. She nods and puts a warm towel on his good cheek. Then she follows his instructions and focuses on her task. They seem to experience the same turmoil: he can tell from the serious look on her face and her way of avoiding his eyes that she's embarrassed. He just tries to stay still, wishing not to disturb her, even if he needs her badly. When she wipes the last traces of soap on his cheek, he hasn't found the words to beg her not to go, so he wraps his arm around her waist. She shivers, then looks at him. He mumbles his thanks and suddenly realizes she doesn't want to be kissed like she probably did a minute ago. She's worried and longing for comfort.

"Both of them," she whispers. "Ella... Ella talked to me because she had nobody else, I suppose, and she told me both of them..."

She stops short, on the verge of tears.

"They raped her," he says. "I know. I won't let anyone hurt you."

As she clutches to him, he forgets everything: the war, the dead innkeeper and how he hunted down the merchants, even the pathetic excuses he'll have to give her if she takes a look at his breeches.

"You need to have a rest," she says, escaping his arms without any warning and wiping her eyes. He obeys, docile as a pet-dog looking for his mistress' affection. Once he's lying down, she pulls the blanket to his chin.

"I'll be downstairs," she tells him. "Ella probably wonders where I am. Try to sleep. After that, come and help us in the kitchens."

Her fingers are featherlight on his good cheek, then she's gone.

* * *

**Thank for your support, once more! The last reviews I received made me very happy, so feel free to comment...**

**The song Sandor remembers is inspired from a sonnet by Simeon de la Roque, a french poet of the 16th century. I tried to translate it, but the whole thing turned into a nightmare, so the right word is "inspired"!**

**To AncolieRose: Thanks for your kind message! Now you know that Sandor came back without any serious injury. And, yes, Sansa is going to tell him what he said in his sleep, in one of the next chapters. To answer your question, I'm french and I learned English at school. I work hard to hide it but I'm afraid there's a few mistakes and Gallicisms in this story (maybe many mistakes, all things considered)... Anyway, messages like yours encourage me, so I try and do my best.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The stairs creak under his weight and a few steps before reaching the floor he sees her. Decked out in a greasy apron Ella lent her, Eddard Stark's daughter shows up, beaming at him. She must have cooked for her sleeves are rolled up and she has stains on her hands and cheeks. He stops in front of her and looks down at the glistening trace on her cheek.

"What's that stuff on your cheek?" he rasps.

Before she can answer, the lad she called Symon appears, a nosey look on his freckled face.

"It must be quince," she says. "We're making jelly and-"

He wipes off the jelly with his thumb and tastes it, gazing at the blond boy.

"What are you doing?" she protests. "What-"

As the freckled one stares wide-eyed, he grabs her hand and brings it to his lips, half-kissing and half-licking. She's so appalled by his manners he laughs.

"Leave me be! What's the matter with you?"

"I'm hungry," he answers plainly. _Hungry for you, it goes without saying._

"Why are you so rude?" she asks in a low voice once the lad is gone.

_Because you're mine and he'd better remember it. And yes, I'm jealous of a boy of fourteen because he spent the whole day with you._ Still frowning, she leads him in the kitchens where Ella is busy with a steaming pot of jelly. Ella welcomes him with a sigh.

"At least! It's almost time to prepare supper. Your lady was worried and I nearly had to tie her to the table to prevent her from going upstairs and making a fool of herself."

As "his lady" looks daggers at her, she gives him a knife and a bowl filled with turnips.

"You already show us you're useful with a knife," she adds.

She has a strong character and more wit than the whole Kingsguard: this girl is someone he can talk with. He sits and begins to peel off the turnips. He watches the blond head and the auburn braid moving about the big pot, enjoying the sweet and slightly acid smell of quince jelly, half quarreling to know if it's ready or not. The blond girl removes the pot from the fire and leaves them. She sits across from him. He carves a turnip in order to give him two eyes and a grinning mouth, then puts it into her hands. She smiles and shakes her head in disapproval.

"Will you do such things when you'll have children of your own?" she asks. "To teach them they shall not play with food?"

He takes another turnip and begins to peel it off. "Never thought I could have children someday."

First smiling at the carved turnip, she suddenly glances at him.

"I'm not saying I can't father children. Obviously, I can," he adds, making her blush. She would gladly hide herself behind the turnip if she could. "But I never got married. And I remember a very wise person told me once marriage was crap."

He thought his last remark would make her smile, but embarrassment overwhelms her.

"This is... this is really awkward," she comments.

"You're the one who asked me about children!" he rasps, taking it out on turnips.

"And you're the one who made that... thing!" she says, holding out the carved turnip as a proof of his childishness. "I never asked if you were able to have children... Are you able to father children or not? I don't know and I couldn't care less. Seven save us, this is nonsense! Do you realize what kind of things you make me say?"

"You couldn't care less, huh? Maybe you're the one who can't bear children." _You're a bastard, Clegane. You're torturing this poor girl._

"How do you dare?" she shouts, horrified. "Do you think Queen Cersei would have chosen a girl who can't bear children for her precious son? I see no point in this conversation; it only reveals how rude and gross you are."

She's out of breath and lowers her eyes not to look at him.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly says. "I shouldn't talk to you like this. I didn't mean... you're sometimes rude, but it doesn't bother me that much."

"We're both fools. I carved this stupid turnip because I wanted you to smile," he explains, softening his voice. He looks at her whereas she sighs, gets on his feet, walks round the table and stops behind her. She's still playing with the smiling turnip and avoids his gaze. He leans over her and kisses the crown of her head.

"Sounds stupid, but I love to quarrel with you," he says. _And I could quarrel with you for a lifetime._ That's the closest thing to a declaration of love he can give her. "Truce?"

"Truce," she answers.

* * *

After dinner, Symon leaves them head-hanging as a child sent to bed. Ella made it clear: she wants to talk with their guests and she doesn't need her young brother under her feet. Once they're alone in the kitchens, he clears his throat.

"We'll give you the horses. You could get a good price for them. As for the gold they carried... I'd like to give you everything, but we need money... so we'll share."

"I don't-" Ella starts, shaking her head.

"We discussed it earlier and agreed on giving you half the money. And their horses. In compensation for your loss," he says.

At the head of the table, as she's now the head of the family, Ella looks suddenly distraught.

"I don't know where you wanted to go, but... I understood you're on the run and you need a place to hide. You're going to laugh and I should keep my mouth shut... Anyway, I wish you could stay here."

He looks at his table companion and sees her staring wide-eyed.

"I want to thank you both for all you did," Ella adds.

"This is very kind of you," she answers with her smooth voice and for a heartbeat, the dim-lit kitchens look like the Queen's Ballroom in the Red Keep. "Very kind but unexpected."

"Be my guests, for as long as you want," Ella says, in a begging tone. "I'll make a fair trade if you stay here: I'll make sure you'll be safe and, to be honest, I also need-"

"Someone to protect you," she adds, glancing at him.

"And I need your company."

Ella puts her hand on hers, making him realize how desperate she is, despite of her brave attitude. The blond girl's eyes fillwith tears and she squeezes the small white hand lying on the table.

"You don't need to work if you stay here," Ella says. "You could just stay and hide."

"We can't stay here and not do anything," she protests.

"Then he could take care of the horses," Ella suggests. "And you could work in the kitchens."

They both repress a smile, making their guest wonder. "I'm a terrible cook," she explains.

"You can learn. For gods' sake, it's getting colder every day and you can't go on traveling!"

Ella releases her hand and sits back, sighing. He turns to her and asks "May I have a word with you?"

She nods and follows him outside, wrapped in her shawl.

"You first," he says, once in the backyard. "What do you think?"

"I'd like to stay here and help her. I worry for Ella."

"But you want to go North, do you?"

She nods and looks at him, encouraging him to speak.

"This place is as good as another. We could go North, first. Should the North prove to be a bloody mess, we come back here and disguise you as a kitchen maid." He brushes her cheek.

"What about Essos?" she asks. "I thought we have enough money."

He looks in the distance for a second, embarrassed, then meets her gaze.

"We have enough gold, but... There's something I didn't tell you about Essos and I'm not comfortable with it. Let's say we go to Tyrosh. Someone hires me as a sellsword and we rent a house. Fine. The thing is, I don't know what kind of work I will have to do and when I will come back home. I'll have to leave you alone in a town you don't know, among strangers whose language you don't speak... To be honest, it scares me. You wouldn't be alone here."

"What about your scars?" she asks, shivering in the dark. "Many people know what you look like. Even those who never met you. If the merchants were able to recognize you-"

"Those who are after us are looking for a high-born girl and a scarred man riding a black warhorse. They're peacocks and they think we are peacocks too. They won't look for us in the poultry-yard, among hens and ducks. But you want to go North first, so we go North. We give a try, at the very least."

"So, that's it: Winterfell or the Thistle."

Ella is sat on a stool, close to the fireplace, when they come back. As soon as she sees them, she turns to her, understanding she will speak for both of them.

"We need to go North," she says with her gentle voice. "It was our plan before we cross the Green Fork. Yet... we don't know what we will find there."

She pauses and he realizes that she's thinking of her home, the castle held by the Starks for centuries, with its towers, its godswood. He can't blame her for that; he missed the place where he grew up for a while, when he was a boy. Then the feeling of loss faded then disappeared, leaving only a blank.

"We might be back soon," he adds. "If you still want to welcome us. We would both work here and help you. We'll leave after your father's burial."

Ella nods thoughtfully. She's just another orphan, lost and afraid in the big house she's now supposed to rule. He feels for her and would like to do more than giving her two horses and a purse of gold. They make small talk for a few minutes, then he points out it is pitch dark.

"I'm going to bed," she says to Ella. Then she turns to him. "Will you come soon?"

The question seems strange, in front of someone else, strange enough and unfamiliar to make him stutter. She gives him a fond look, then goes upstairs, leaving him puzzled. He doesn't even know how long he's supposed to wait before joining her, nor what he's expected to say to the girl. Such a situation would have driven him mad before: he would have cursed, shouted and spoiled everything. He just feels shy instead.

"She's sweet," Ella says. "Sweet and kind. You're lucky."

As he's unable to utter a word, silence prevails.

"Seems like you don't mind to work in the stables," she adds. "Not what I expected from the likes of you."

"My grand-father was a kennel-master."

"North is said to be... dangerous. It's not wise to go North. You know it, I'm sure, but you can't say nay to her, right? Will you... will you marry her?"

He almost jumps. "I'm twice her age," he rasps. "And I'm burnt."

"I can see that and so she does. But do you know what she says about you?"

He shakes his head and waits for the answer; he never had a chance to have her opinion about him. His heart beats faster.

"We talked, yesterday," she says. "You're both a hero and some unruly child, for her. It's just a matter of time."

He doesn't dare to ask _what_ is a matter of time and looks at the greasy stains of the table.

"It's a pity you don't stay. I would have made sure you married her quickly," she sighs.

"I will marry her if she wants me," he says in a low voice.

"She will. Go now; you gave her enough time. She must be waiting for you."

* * *

"There you are," she whispers, smiling. She's in bed, half-sat, leaning against the pillows. Her hair is combed and her auburn braid rests on her right shoulder. Everything about her – her expression, her hands on her lap, her whole appearance, not a hair out of place – shows she's waiting for him. _Will you marry her?_ Ella asked. _Is it always like this, when you're married? Does your wife waits for you, her hair done and a gentle smile on her face? Is it possible that she's acting as if we were married? Is she aware of what she's doing?_ All this is disturbing, really. He shuts the door and smiles back. A poor smile, in fact: his scars don't allow him to give her something better than twisted lips. He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to her, trying to regain his composure, and removes his boots. For a few heartbeats, he hesitates, then strips his tunic: she already saw his chest, she seemed pleased and he had decided that he wouldn't hide her feelings for her. _Seven Hells, why is it so complicated?_ He turns to her and notices a sparkle of apprehension in her eyes, despite her smile. She's going to do or say something, but what is it?

"Let me have a look at you," she whispers, cupping his chin as he sits besides her. She scrutinizes his good cheek, first, then his whole face. "It looks good. You look good, once shaved. I'm a terrible cook, but maybe I could open a barber shop."

He laughs, both at the idea of the barber shop and at her compliment. His reaction offends her and she pouts, like a little girl.

"I maintain that your cheek is very well shaved and looks good," she says solemnly.

"When it comes to your skills, you're always touchy," he answers. "Of course, you did an excellent work with the only side of my face I can shave. But... I won't look good, no matter what you do. That's why I was laughing."

"You look good, once shaved," she repeats almost challenging him.

"Stubborn girl. Anyway, I won't let you open a barber shop. I don't want you to take care of other men's cheeks and beards. You are _my_ barber."

He never expressed his jealousy before and her eyes widened.

"Only if you are my own maid," she says, faking the arrogant tone of a lady.

"That's fair trade. Does m'lady want a bath?"

She blushes then shakes her head.

"I had one this morning, when I was waiting for you. What about your shoulder?" she asks, eager to change the subject. "Better? It seems you only needed some rest."

_I'd rather say I needed to rest my eyes on you._

"Did you sleep alone, last night?" he asks, though he knows she didn't.

"No, I was scared and so was Ella, so we both slept here."

"What was it like?"

"Well... she doesn't snore."

_But some people do snore._ In the flickering light of the candle, he sees her mischievous look.

"I kicked asses and broke teeth for less than that. You know that, right?" he asks.

She nods and represses a smile. He could kiss her; she probably wants to be kissed here and now, but he decides to wait. _We've got plenty of time._

* * *

They wake up curled in the middle of the bed; he doesn't even think of blaming the sagging mattress, though. She stretches herself out and rolls on one side to face him.

"I dreamed of my little sister," she says. "I was looking for Arya and couldn't find her."

He once had a sister. Perhaps he loose his faith the day she died. But as Arya Stark vanished into the air months ago, no one could tell if she is dead or hiding somewhere. He's hardly able to imagine what it is like: waiting for the return of someone who care for, without the slightest idea of where he can be, clutching to a faint hope. He pats her upper arm, clumsy as ever.

"No bad dreams, tonight?" she asks him. "Will you tell me someday what happened in your nightmare?"

"It was a bad dream and I only want to forget it," he answers. The ominous atmosphere in the woods, his fear, the blood filling her dress: he left all this behind him when he came back to her yesterday. He jumps on his feet and grabs his tunic.

"You've been talking in your sleep," she says. She wants to tease him: he feels it in her voice and turns to her, struggling with his tunic's sleeves. "You didn't say what you said the other day, though."

"But you're not going to tell because torturing poor buggers like me is high-born girls' favorite pastime."

"In this case, the torture would be sweeter if I tell you what it is." She pauses and challenges him as he puts his belt on. "You said "I can father children". Twice, as if I was deaf."

He laughs then kneels on the bed and makes her sit.

"You're pretty obsessed with that," he comments. "I wonder what it means."

Leaning over her, he whispers in her ear "Do you need a proof?"

She stares at him wide-eyed as he begins to undo his belt. Her expression delights him and he can't help laughing while he gets on his feet.

"I can frighten you," he finally says, walking to the door. "Good to know."

* * *

The innkeeper's burial takes place by a bunch of trees, near the inn. At first, he thought it wouldn't be wise to attend the ceremony, since neighbors would be there, but there's no one except Ella, Symon and a old frail septon. He's himself set back, whereas she decides to join Ella and takes her hand in hers. As the septon says his prayers in front of the shrouded body, the blond girl seems to fall apart. When Symon and he put the innkeeper's corpse in the grave he dug himself, she sobs noisily. _We shouldn't go. She needs us here and we're going to risk our lives only to make sure the North is a bloody hell._ He helps Symon out of the grave and once he's back on the grass, he grabs the spade and begins to cover the shroud with dirt. The septon tries to comfort Ella then tells Symon he's now the man of the house, insisting on his duties towards his sister. He's going to think of the two orphans every night, from now on, until he manages to come back with her and settle here. As weird as it may be, this place feels like home.

* * *

Ella gave them everything they need and even what they don't need: a brush for her, some quince jelly. She insisted on giving him a skin of Dornish wine. She wants them back and seems terrified by what they could find on their way North. She hugs Sansa for a while, telling her she'll pray every day for her. Then she turns to him, an awkward smile on her lips: the self-confident girl he met three days ago vanished and there's only a child who will see a potential murderer or rapist in every customer. She tries to be brave, though.

"Promise me you'll take care of her," she says on the verge of tears. "And stop arguing with her, you bloody fool."

"We'll come back," he says. "If only because I want to see her creating mayhem in your kitchens."

Smiling despite her tears, Ella taps his lower arm. As Sansa comes closer to Symon to say goodbye, he glares at the boy. _I made it clear, she's mine._ Symon is shifting from foot to foot and barely speaks to her.

They finally leave the backyard of the _Thistle_, ready to go to Saltpans. It's still a long journey, but they're rested, they have money and food. And he's alone with her. It's enough to make him forget for a while the guilt he feels for leaving two orphans in a place where no one is safe.

* * *

**Thank you for your support! It's always a pleasure to know people are reading this story week after week. Your comments make me feel lucky, every time I read them. So if you like this chapter, please review!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Sandor Clegane never saw himself as a patient man. He doesn't like to wait for something, and when he has to, he can't help pacing up and down, in a good day. In bad days, he would threaten or become violent whenever someone puts his patience to the test. As a boy, he learned weapon handling, and swordplay means swiftness and alacrity, not patience. He was never quick enough for his father's standards, and he soon became aware swift movements were his only chance with a sparring partner such as his brother : he just had no other choice than being agile to avoid Gregor's blows and be able to counterattack. Once in Casterly Rock, he realized he was quicker than all the boys and most of the men with a sword. His father's insistence on learning velocity was an asset. Later on, as Joffrey's Dog or as a member of the Kingsguard, he had to stand still during hours for every official occasion and he was bored to death. He nevertheless obeyed and didn't budge, dreaming of the open air and a worthy opponent, but these moments of forced stillness were one of the reasons why he hated his task. Patience was Varys or Littlefinger's favorite weapon: a man too weak to fight can only wait in the dark and seize the opportunity when it comes up. He thought patience was a feminine virtue: something girls learn with their mother or their septa. Needlework was meant for it, as swordplay taught him swiftness. Perhaps girls are not so patient though, or perhaps those who were patient lose their good manners in special circumstance.

Patience changed sides when they began their road to Saltpans. The serene and imperturbable Sansa he met long ago disappeared and a different girl – confident, sometimes even bold – took her place. Her eyes are constantly on him and she asks for his attention. If they didn't kiss since their last night in the woods, it's only because he doesn't want to speed up. A force he doesn't know up to there and he's unable to describe prevents him from kissing her.

His nightmare comes back with an old foe's unpleasant familiarity, on the first night of their journey to Saltpans. It begins with the same vision. Centennial trees surround him and she's here, her back to him. He feels the same anguish that overwhelms him every time he has this dream. When he's right behind her, she slightly turns her head and smiles. He can't catch her eye, though. His chest constricting, he puts both hands on her shoulders and she leans against him. "What are you afraid of?" she whispers, offering her lips. That's when he looks at her skirts and realizes they're filled with blood.

He wakes up with a start and she mumbles in her sleep it's too early in the morning and she doesn't wants to get up. He lies flat on the back and for a second he watches the trees above them, just to make sure he's not in the disquieting landscape of his nightmare. She shifts and turns her back on him. He thought he was done with this bloody dream, but he was wrong. _What does it mean, Seven Hells?_ What is he afraid of, except committing himself? Of course, he never had a relationship such as this one and he wasn't supposed to marry or even please a woman with his scars. _But the blood... Does it stands for death? Does it mean if I don't take the chance I have with her, death will come and I'll never know what it is to be loved? Does it mean I should seize the moment and stop acting like a boy?_ Perhaps refusing to commit himself with her is as craven as running from a battlefield. For a few heartbeats, he watches the back of her neck and her braid, then rolling on his side, he cuddles up next to her and wraps his arm around her waist. She mumbles again. _Yes, my love, it's me. Think the green boy is gone._

* * *

The next day, after a long ride by the river, they settle at dusk in a cave. The lowering weather forced them not to stop before finding a shelter. The cave isn't too damp, the limestone cavity walls would protect them from the rain. They gather wood and kindling, make a fire and eat. She goes on watching him. Did he stared at her like this, when he stole her from Baelish? It's strange to be observed this way, to understand someone is longing for you when people treated you like a monster all your life. They don't speak much and there's tension now that she knows exactly what she wants. _But what if I misunderstood all this and she doesn't want me? I'm a moron, I'm not accustomed to women, even less to girls: if I'm wrong and she rejects me... Shit! Be a man, for once._ And suddenly, he knows what he has to do.

After dinner, she vanishes in the wood nearby and when she comes back, she prepares herself for the night. It's always the same ritual: she removes her cloak and folds it to make a pillow for both of us, looks for a good place to sleep – and tonight she chooses to stay nearby the limestone wall – and sits to comb her hair. Among all the things she did to pretty herself up in King's Landing, it's the only habit she kept since they began their journey. He can't help staring at her every time she combs her hair and she knows it, yet she doesn't know what he's about to do. When she undoes her braid, he kneels just behind her.

"If I'm your maid," he rasps, "I should do that for you."

She's surprised, and even blushes, but she laughs softly and lets him do as he pleases. He touches her hair and winces because there is no tangle: tangles would mean more time taking care of her. He nevertheless combs her auburn hair, slowly, paying attention to the slightest reaction she could have.

"Is m'lady satisfied?" he asks. "Am I worthy enough to comb m'lady's hair every night?"

She laughs and he gets closer.

"Of course, you're a good maid. Now, plait my hair, if you will."

"Plait? Seven Hells! What is that?"

"What kind of maid are you?" she teases him. "I want a braid, like the one I do everyday. You never plaited Stranger's mane?"

"Do you want Stranger to kick me?" he rasps.

As she tries to part her hair in three strands, their hands tangle up, then he puts his on her hips. She shivers but doesn't protest. When he finally tries to plait her hair, he messes about and she rapidly looks disheveled. She laughs, mocks his uselessness but demands that he tries again. And again. What should be done in a few minutes drags on to his great pleasure. Finally, he manages to do something that looks like a braid, but ugly and twisted.

"You'll learn," she says, sighing. "Someday you'll do it with your eyes closed."

_So you want me to do this again. Good._ He lies down, then rolls on one side and looks at her.

"Are you sleepy?" he asks. She glances at him, smiling.

"Not that much. Do you want to talk before sleeping? Tell me some story? Play a game?"

_We play this game everyday and all day long. I'm not sated, though._ She sits up and so he does. He thought the green boy was gone, but he feels like a boy, in the good sense of the word.

"I like it when you've got this playful smile," she says. "You were so grim when I met you. So what kind of game do we play?"

"Monsters-and-maidens," he answers. "I'm the monster, you're the maiden."

"Can't it be the other way around?" she protests. "Why should you be the monster?"

"Do I look like a bloody maiden?" he growls.

"Well, you sometimes blush. And you stutters. That's what maidens do." The expression on his face must be hilarious, because she bursts out laughing : he grabs her shoulders, pretending he's gravely offended, and forces her to lie down. He holds her firmly and rasps "And now, do I look like a maiden?". Convulsed with laughter, she's unable to answer. When was the last time when he horsed about with someone ? He can't remember. She rolls on one side to escape him but he lies down, once again in the position they both prefer: pressing his chest against her back, his arm around her.

"Can we stay like this?" she asks with a lazy voice.

"As you wish," he says, burying his face in her hair.

"No, please," she protests, "I didn't wash my hair, I'm filthy."

"I'm filthy too. And I probably stink."

Her laughter echoes in the cave and vibrates against his hand resting on her waist. _You're in my arms; I'm not ready to kiss you yet, but I will be soon. Very soon._ She gives a sigh of contentment as he pulls his cloak to her chin.

* * *

Next morning brings back the rain and they progress slowly, hood raised, struggling against the gusts of wind that make her shiver: their range of vision is not as wide as it is when the sky is cloudless. The woods they ride through are treacherous. There are hillocks and holes, all things he fears for her and her mare. In the deep of woods, they're safe though; they don't see anyone. The gloomy weather soon overcomes her good mood and they keep silent, until a creaking noise startles him. She glances at him and says it could be some animal. He turns his horse around, observing the surroundings, but there are only tall trees and fallen leaves on the waterlogged soil. A few minutes later, they hear the same noise – both creaking and rustling – and he wonders if there is someone hidden, watching them. As their clothes are soaked by rain and the autumnal wind is cold, staying still is quite uncomfortable, but he whispers to her not to move and listens carefully. Removing his hood, he scrutinizes the woods, looking for a possible enemy. No one.

"Is it possible that somebody follows us?" she asks in a low voice.

Fear is tangible, almost obvious in her tone and the chilly rain worsens her apprehension. As for him, rain drops stubbornly fall on his head, drenching his hair and running on his face. The mare snorts, thus showing her disapproval. The animal doesn't like the rain either. Or is it something else? Another creaking disturbs the stillness of the woods. It's closer, this time. He grabs the pommel of his sword, then sees it. Stately and unabashed, a stag emerges from a bunch of trees, stops as if he wanted to look at them and runs away. Behind him, he hears a sigh of relief. It's time to move.

* * *

She wakes up with a start and clutches to him: she had a bad dream, according to her expression and her heart beating fast. As she rolls on her back, catching her breath, he opens his eyes and tries to soothe her.

"It's over, calm down," he whispers, leaning on his elbow.

She mumbles she's sorry for troubling his sleep.

"I dreamed of Joffrey, that's all," she explains when he asks if she wants to tell him what it was.

_You don't want to talk about it, just like I do with my own nightmares. I respect that._

"I'd like to forget everything," she confesses, on the verge of tears.

In the faint light of dawn, her face seems fuzzy just like the knee-high grass where they made their bed, or the stump of a fallen oak a few feet of them. It's very early in the morning, yet he's sure he can't go back to sleep.

"Come," she says, drawing him close to her.

He buries his face in her neck, holding her tight, whispering soothing words. He's not as clumsy as he would have thought. Is he more confident now or does she make him feel like this because she clutches to him? She breathes easier after a while but doesn't release her embrace. His nose rests against her neck and he enjoys the smell of her skin – the filth of her skin, she would say. Her skin is soft and he wants to taste it. There is something animal about his behavior and he's perfectly aware of it. It's not like in the stupid dreams he had when he fell in love with her: he dreamed of her many nights, idealizing her body, imagining she would smell of lilac and that her curves would be as perfect as those of a statue. His fantasies filled and brought colors to the empty room where he slept in the Kingsguard's quarters. In a sense, it was just the kind of dreamy vision she had about knights, except that she didn't imagine that bastard of Loras Tyrell naked, moaning under her touch. But the girl who holds him tight is totally different from his dreams: she's not drenched in perfumes, she's not wearing the low-cut dresses which unavoidably caused his arousal in the corridors of the Red Keep, her skin isn't as perfectly white as he thought with its tiny freckles. She didn't wash herself, she's disheveled, she's not the idealized girl of his dreams but that doesn't count anymore: he's aching for her.

When he raises his head, leaning on his elbow again, what is going to happen is obvious. Her blue eyes beg him, though he doesn't need any plea. His lips meet hers; it's something very light at first, as if he was restraining himself, but he soon forgets his good manners, pressing his mouth against hers, deepening his kiss. On his burnt cheek, his skin feels tight. She moves her hand on the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair. After a while, his craving for her skin comes back and he can't help kissing her neck. The salty taste of her skin drives him mad : his right hand had been well-behaved so far, resting on her waist, but now he can't control himself and brushes her chest. She gasps and clutches to him. When he starts to kiss her collarbone and the area below, she shivers and moans softly. This sound stops him, as surely as a cry from her would do. He looks at her and though all he sees is a desire as strong as his own, he can't go on.

"I- I'm going to fetch some water for you," he explains, conscious of being pathetic. "There's no need to get up so early, you can stay here... Stay here and I'll be back soon."

He leaves her under his cloak, a puzzled look on her face, and nearly stumbles on the bastard sword he always keep close to him at night. In Stranger's saddle-bag, he takes the skin he uses to put fresh water into and goes to the pool, some eighty yards farther. This is stupid, so stupid; he should have stayed with her. She must be thinking that he gave her a silly excuse because he wanted to take a piss, whereas he just need some space to think of what's going on. Cursing in a low voice, he kneels to plunge the skin into the water, then stands up straight. He wants to come back to her, hold her in his arms, kiss her and taste her skin again. And even if their moment is gone and she doesn't want to play their favorite game, he'll find some occasion later. He can feel it in every fiber of being, he's ready to face it and to tell her how he loves her. Almost grinning, he goes back to the place where they slept, and suddenly stops. She's standing next to the horses, in what could look like a perfectly normal situation but it isn't normal. Glancing at the nearest bunch of trees, she shivers. _We're not alone._

"Run!" she screams, before two ragged men grab her arms and hold her firmly.

There are a dozen of them appearing suddenly, filthy and shaggy, but all carrying swords. They could be men of the Brotherhood, obeying to the Lightning Lord, Beric Dondarrion. He could run, though he has no weapon; none of them could probably catch him.

"Run!" she screams again. "Go away!"

Towering above the two graybeards who threw themselves on him, he doesn't move and glares at the man standing by her who seems to be their leader. The man looks surprised; he probably thought he would try to escape. His behavior just makes no sense for these ragged soldiers. They can't understand.

He's not going anywhere without her.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Reviews are always welcome!**


	16. Chapter 16

**The events in this chapter don't follow the canon since Beric Dondarrion is still alive weeks after the Red Wedding and Lady Stoneheart isn't in charge of the Brotherhood without Banners. I hope you'll like it though!**

**Chapter 16**

As she is on horseback, hands tied, the reins of her mare hold by the man walking next to her – a wealth of precautions he doesn't understand – she shifts and turns around on her saddle to look at him. There's so much concern for him in her eyes he would like to yell that he's fine and she should worry for herself, just like he does.

The flea-bitten men of the Brotherhood take them to their den where they're supposed to meet Beric Dondarrion: it's still a long way and most of them, including himself, are on foot.

Earlier, as the outlaws tied his hands and made sure he wasn't hiding weapons, he witnessed a queer exchange between her and one of the men – the one who holds her horse's reins, a tall thin man, with a shock of brown hair matching his ragged cloak. Of course, he is aware that some of Dondarrion's men were Northerners, but this one knows her personally; he was probably one of Eddard Stark's men. _So he knows who she is. He knows her value._ The Northerner had a close look to the place where they slept. It was a big hole in the knee-high grass and he squatted, stared at it for a while, but when he stood up, his eyes went dark.

"I'm going to kill this bastard!" he almost shouted grabbing the pommel of his sword.

She seized his shoulders and said something he couldn't hear from where he was. The only word he understood was the Northerner's name, Harwin. She kept saying it, as if it could soothe him. Whatever she explained to him, Harwin's features froze in a horrified expression: disbelief, shock and disappointment appeared successively on his face.

"How could you?" Harwin finally asked her.

He didn't get her answer, because some of the men were trying to take Stranger with them. Her mare had obeyed, as usual, but Stranger reared up and kicked. He could see the fear in the outlaws' reactions; when a young idiot decided that his brothers in arms were only cowards and got closer to his horse, Stranger's mean kick sent him on the ground. The youth cried for his mother and said he couldn't breathe. An older one took care of him and explained that two of his ribs, at least, were broken. Stranger offered him a futile revenge, in fact: though he hadn't struggled nor protested when they had tied him, one of the outlaws rewarded him with a punch that split his lower lip. As the pain spread in his lower jaw, she cried and all of a sudden, the other ones gave his assailant a disapproving look. A man clad in a yellow cloak even cursed: she was their prisoner as well, yet they respected her opinion. Someone finally took hold of Stranger's reins and Harwin helped her on her mare. Thus, they began their walk to the place where Dondarrion waited for them.

He stares at her back, a few yards ahead: he's afraid to know what she told Harwin. _It was a mistake, my love. You didn't have to do that._ If he's right, her explanations could only cause more troubles for both of them. He knows what Dondarrion thinks of him: he's only Tywin Lannister's puppet, a man with blood on his hands and Gregor Clegane's brother. _Here we are, again._ His fucking brother was the reason Eddard Stark sent Dondarrion and his men to the Riverlands; Dondarrion meant to find Gregor and kill him. But Gregor impaled him on a lance, instead. At least, it was what small folk reported but Dondarrion's feats went on after he met Gregor. And now that he can have his revenge on the only Clegane available, Dondarrion won't let him go.

Sometimes, it seems everything leads him to his brother, from his scars when he sees his reflection in the disgusted gaze of other people to his unexpected visit in the Brotherhood's den. His world revolved around Gregor for so many years it seemed natural: hiding from him when he was five, learning swordplay to avoid Gregor's blows and stay alive, running from his father's house at twelve, refusing to be dubbed because Gregor was a knight... Gregor was behind every decision he made since his childhood. Like a curse, or a shadow cast on his life. Gregor could have chosen to kill him after killing their father. To his utter astonishment, he decided to spare him, but it was no mercy. The punishment was worse than an untimely death: his name was bound to his brother's crimes and the scars Gregor left on his face deprived him from having a wife or a family. His burnt face spoiled and even destroyed his relationship with everyone, man or woman. _What kind of fool can say his world revolves around his own brother? Who can say his world revolves around his brother who is also his enemy?_ His life came down to this feeling of hatred before he met her. The day he realized what she meant for him, he set Gregor aside. A new curse replaced the old one and made him do stupid things. The last of these idiocies was his lack of prudence in the woods, because he wanted to kiss her. Or was it when he refused to run though he had a chance to escape and decided to stay with her?

And there she is, a few yards ahead, shifting from time to time and glancing at him.

"Why did you tie her hands like this?" he asks the ragged man at his side. "You think she's going to run away, or something?"

The man stares at him, a suspicious look on his face.

"She's not going to run away," he insists. "Besides, her skin's delicate. Rope will leave marks on her wrists." He knows better than anyone else, since he once tied her to a tree. The man frowns again at his strange comment and stays silent.

"High-born girls don't run away," he states, but the man laughs bitterly.

"We had a high-born girl with us, for a while," the man starts. "A true high-born girl, she was, but she looked like a stable boy. She was like quicksilver. She ran away. So this one is not going to escape us."

"What high-born girl are you talking about?"

"Her sister," the man answers, giving a nod to emphasize his revelation.

_Her sister? Arya?_ He doesn't believe such a story, but before he can ask anything, he realizes they reach the Brotherhood's den. Whatever he imagined, it's more like a camp set by a village. There are fires, tents and huts, men and women everywhere. _Hidden among the small folk, protected by them._ One of the men shoves him in the direction of the biggest hut. The door is so small he has to bend when someone calls him in. A fire crackles inside, but there's such a contrast with the autumnal sun shining in the woods, his eyes need a few seconds to adjust themselves to the feeble light.

"Clegane," says a masculine voice. "What a surprise!"

He recognizes the voice before he can see the man's face; but war caused so many changes in his appearance that this ironic tone is the only remain of the red priest he once knew in King's Landing. Thoros of Myr was a fat bald man, more disposed to drink and joke with King Robert than to convert people to his religion. The man facing him is thin, his long red robes faded long ago and he wears a piecemeal armor.

"Lord Beric will come soon," the red priest says. "You'll have to answer for your crimes."

* * *

They tied his wrists and ankles and left him in a damp hut smelling of piss. However, the man she called Harwin didn't think it was enough and asked for someone to guard him. A youth volunteered; tall and muscled for his age, he hides blue eyes behind his dark hair. _He reminds me of someone. Where did I see him?_ The lad doesn't seem hostile like the other ones. He's just curious.

"Is she really Sansa Stark?" the boy asks, after a while, sitting across from him.

"Yes, she is."

"And you're Gregor Clegane's brother?"

He nods. _Seven hells, why am I not an only child?_ The boy pauses, thoughtful.

"Is it true that Arya Stark spent time with your... brothers?" he asks, taking the dark-haired unawares.

The boy swallows hard and avoids his gaze for a moment, then nods. _How strange._

"How much time did you spend with Arya Stark, exactly?" he rasps.

The question upsets the boy who gets on his feet and loses his temper. "Why should I answer? You're our prisoner!"

"Lady Sansa thought her sister dead. If you know anything about the little girl, you should talk to her. What are these buggers going to do with her?"

The boy stares at him, trying to regain his composure, and his answer is like another punch in his face.

"Ransom her. Arya... I mean Lady Arya ran away before being sent to House Tully. The Brotherhood needs money."

So is that how it will end? Another ransom, another journey to Riverrun for her. Meanwhile, he'll swing from a tree: that's Dondarrion's plan for him. The surcease due to Lord Beric's absence won't last long.

"I want to talk to her," he tells the boy. His face perfectly still doesn't reflect the thoughts and feelings springing in his mind. He's going to lose her, for real. He remembers his reaction when she refused to leave King's Landing with him: he had to go, he didn't have time to think. Once in the countryside, he began to realize she had discarded him. As he kept moving in the Crownlands then in the Riverlands, he left in his wake empty skins of wine and whores paid with Joffrey's coin. There were not only wine and women during these weeks. Some men crossed his path; he rewarded their company with bruises and broken teeth. He needed fight as a substitute for the embrace he wanted to give her and she had refused. He was desperate, until he took the decision to find her. At least, he won't live long enough to go through the same ordeal.

"I am to die. And I want to talk to her." It sounds simple and sincere. The boy looks at him for a while, hesitating. "Imagine it's the other way around... if you were my prisoner... if Arya Stark was out there, I'd go and bring her back with me."

He can't say anything else. Words don't come easily when you're used to command and yell. Begging is a strange thing: you make yourself small and humble, you show your weakness. _Such an unfamiliar situation._ The boy's silence lingers on and he recalls the maester's first visit to him, during Robert's Rebellion. Tywin Lannister sent him his personal maester after his first battle. He had received a quarrel in the arm and had several cuts on the torso and the legs. But the maester, a small creature with a gray beard, deaf in one ear, was obsessed with his burnt cheek; he couldn't help looking at his face and finally asked what had happened to him. "I fell" he answered, in a stubborn and angry tone. But the maester knew: somehow, he had heard of Gregor's deed. The old man looked at him and saw everything he wanted to keep from the rest of the world: Gregor's cruelty, their parents' inability to stop their elder son, the void left by his sister's death, his fears. And above all, his hatred for his brother. Though he was only twelve, he had come to a point in his life where his hatred for Gregor was so strong he hated himself. The old maester saw all these things in him; and now, the boy can see his feelings for her. As powerful as his hatred for Gregor, and as destructive, perhaps.

The lad's hesitating eyes wander through the hut, then he runs off without a word. After a while, he convinces himself the boy went to talk to Harwin or some other man of the Brotherhood. _After all, it can't be worse than it is._ The thought he could never see her again drives him mad. _And she didn't want to go to Riverrun: she'll soon be married against her will, bound for life to a man who can't understand what she's been through. _They could have caught him before, on the first days of their journey, it would have been less painful. Lose her now seems a cruel trick planned by the gods, if they exist. He tries to recall her smell but his attempts are vain. Closely watching through the open door, he stares at the trees and their bare branches: soon, they'll welcome him and he'll dance between the dark soil and the sky. A shadow appears on the threshold and comes in.

"Sandor!" she whispers, kneeling beside him. Her hands aren't tied anymore, but her eyes are red. The lad is back, as well. He warns them they have only a few minutes.

"What's your name, boy?" he asks.

"Gendry. I'll talk to you later, m'lady," he says to Sansa, before going outside.

For now, she focuses on his split lip and touches it gently.

"I'm fine," he rasps. "What about you?"

"They want to take me to Riverrun. Harwin said they need to ransom me." She's on the verge of tears. "I don't want to lose you." She tries to untie his hands, but the knot is too tight and she begins to cry. He stops her, explaining there are too many men of the Brotherhood in the surroundings and he doesn't want the boy to get into trouble because of him.

"What did you tell Harwin?" he asks.

She doesn't answer at first, choking back her tears. "He saw our kiss. He asked me-"

"I know what he asked you. I know you didn't tell him the truth. Why?"

"I told him I laid with you. Willingly. That's what should have happened before we got caught. You wanted it and so did I."

"Why? Dondarrion will hang me as soon as he gets back. It could only make things worse for you!"

She shakes her head, a stubborn look on her face. "I'll talk to Lord Beric. He's not a bad person; my father respected him. And there are Northerners in the Brotherhood: I know these men. I can convince them."

"You think they're going to let us go? You can't save me! Go find Harwin and tell him you lied. Tell him I never touched you. You don't have anything, except your name and your honor. Don't waste your honor for me."

"You don't understand," she says, sighing. "Trust me, for once. It's the only thing we can do."

"I want you to live a long life... With what remains of your family. Without me."

"Don't talk like that," she says, brushing his swollen lip with her fingers. "Don't talk like that," she repeats, leaning over him and kissing him clumsily. He forgets the pain in his jaw, his dismal and her lies: the touch of her lips is the only thing that matters. He soon deepens his kiss and she's out of breath when they stop. With his hands tied, he can barely move; his eyes beg her and she gives him another kiss as desperate as the first one.

"I'll talk to them," she says, afterward, cupping his chin. "Trust me. Confirm what I'll say. We can get through it: don't spoil everything."

He nods, though he doesn't expect any miracle. _I let you believe we'll be fine as long as I could. I'll do anything to spare you._ The boy is back inside; he tells her they have to go before being discovered and she follows the lad after giving him a last kiss. Pretending to be confident is so difficult when he knows exactly where he will be at dawn and he has to hold back his tears. Once the boy is back, a few minutes later, he asks him about Arya. The boy sits across from him and tells him everything: how he met a scrawny boy named Arry when they both intended to go to the Wall, how he understood she was a girl, how she is both brave and stubborn. How they spent their time squabbling with each other.

"She escaped," the boy finally says. "She didn't like being with the Brotherhood. Never had a chance to say a proper goodbye."

He doesn't know what to say to the lad: words of comfort aren't familiar to him. They stay silent for a while, as the sun's rays fade. At sunset, one of the tattered soldiers comes in and says Dondarrion is back. The man unties his ankles, helps him on his feet, then shoves him outside. They walk through the camp and reach the ruins of a sept, next to the village. The seven walls protect the fires Thoros of Myr lit up from the gusts of wind, but the roof collapsed long ago. The sept is crowded, in spite of the cold: members of the Brotherhood, smallfolk, men, women and children. Standing in front of the altar of the Father, Lord Beric Dondarrion waits for him. The leader of the Brotherhood's appearance questions everything he knows about fight and wounds and medicine. _How is it fucking possible?_ When people reported Dondarrion's death on several occasions, he figured the ones who tried to kill him didn't succeed or simply exaggerated. However, it seems Dondarrion's body did suffer all the things his brother and Amory Lorch boasted about: he has an eye-patch, a part of his head is smashed and a rope left purple and black marks on his throat. _How is it fucking possible that Gregor killed him twice and he's still breathing?_ When facing something he doesn't understand, scorn and irony are his favorite weapons, so he gives a contemptuous laugh and looks at the assembly.

"Well, is this your court with brave knights and beautiful ladies, Lord Lighting?" he mocks. "And you, the red priest, lighting fires in a sept. How appropriated." _I'm going to die, might as well have fun._

Someone strikes him in the back with such violence he falls on his knees. She screams and he realizes she was in the crowd, though he didn't see her. As he tries to get back on his feet, she escapes from Harwin and runs to him.

"Please, my lady, calm down and-" Dondarrion says in a soothing voice.

She doesn't listen and helps him to stand up, which is not so easy with his hands tied. She dusts his tunic, giving him a shy smile and whispering he'll be fine. Her hands are tender when she cups his face and looks at his split lip, as if she forgot the crowd behind and Dondarrion observing them. But she's perfectly aware of the curious gazes. _It's part of her plan. She wants to give them proof of what she told Harwin._ He should blow her off and be as scornful with her as he was with the crowd: maybe it could prevent her from doing something even more stupid. Yet he can't: he needs her eyes on him and he needs her by his side.

"Come back, my lady," Harwin begs her. She shakes her head and takes one of his hands in hers.

"You shouldn't do that," he warns her. He nevertheless clutches to her small hands.

Thoros of Myr may be annoyed by this scene and eager to distract attention from them or just as histrionic as he was in King's Landing, anyway, he clears his throat.

"Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of the Hand of the King Eddard Stark, heiress of the North, betrothed to King Joffrey, wife to Tyrion Lannister."

Behind them, he hears the crowd whispering. All of a sudden, she raises her head and gives the priest a fierce look.

"You forgot something, I'm afraid," she says in a imperious tone. "I'm not Sansa Stark, nor Sansa Lannister. My name changed a few days ago. I am now Sansa of House Clegane."

What was a whisper becomes an uproar: members of the Brotherhood shout, peasants protest and some laugh in disbelief. Dondarrion stays silent but this revelation could ruin his plans and he knows it. Thoros of Myr makes a gesture to shush the assembly.

"It seems that you're a lucky man, Clegane," Thoros comments, causing even more laughter and shouts.

He looks at her hands still holding his, then at her face. She's bright red and frightened but she smiles to him. _Trust me_, her eyes say. Emerging from the crowd, Harwin steps forwards.

"My lady," he starts. "I'm sure he forced you to marry him and to lay with him. It cannot be otherwise. You didn't marry him willingly and it's another crime he committed. Still, we can fix it and do justice. Just tell us the truth."

"I told you the truth. Besides, you saw him kissing me."

There are protestations, japes and comments of all kinds behind him, until Dondarrion asks for the silence. Thoros of Myr is scrutinizing the flames, a serious look on his face. His figure throws a huge shadow on the wall. A perfect image of the red priest, he thinks: an ordinary man putting on airs and captivating the crowd, who tends to forget he's nothing without his damn fires casting big shadows everywhere. _Fraud, faker._ A small hand squeezes his and she nestles her head against his upper arm. She's another faker, though her motivations are completely different from the red priest's. All of a sudden, Thoros stops looking at the flames and raises his head whereas the peasants begin to whisper, observing. The Myrish's expression is unreadable.

"Lady Sansa tells the truth," he finally announces. "I saw it in the flames. She married Clegane willingly."

If he needed any proof, this so-called revelation shows that the religion of the Red God is a fucking pack of lies. However, he doesn't have time for such considerations. She gives him a tender smile, while the crowd seems to become mad.

"It's not possible!" Harwin yells. "Her father-"

Once more, Dondarrion has to shush the assembly.

"Clegane," he says, "no matter how you managed to marry Lady Sansa, you're here to answer for your crimes. A few days ago, my men found two dead merchants in the woods. A crofter saw you as you were following them. Besides, we found the gold these two men were carrying in the saddle-bag of your horse. You killed and stole their gold, but it wasn't enough for a monster such as you: you beheaded them. The heads were never found."

The crowd shivers; horrified women begin to cry and some members of the Brotherhood curse in a low tone. Ignoring them, Dondarrion looks at him straight in the eyes.

"Sandor Clegane, for the murders of two men, you'll be hanged at dawn.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Lord Beric!" she cries. "I beg you... Don't-"

In the chaos following Dondarrion's sentence, he feels so dizzy he can't hear what she says.

_I want to be buried with my horse_.

When he was a boy, a peasant living near Clegane's keep once came, told his father he had found something strange, and led them to his field, at the foot of a wind-blown hill. For some reason, Gregor wasn't with them. While plowing, the peasant had come across a grave. In the dark soil, there was the skeleton of a man, lying with a sword, several daggers and some round thing that looked like a shield. There were other remains, as well: a big horse lied next to the man. His father watched the tomb for a long time and so he stayed by his side, silent in the chill, as the peasant waited for an answer: could he plow this part of the field or should he leave the warrior rest in peace? He can't remember his father's decision, but the vision of the man buried with his horse haunted him all these years; they were only a bunch of bones but they seem peaceful. Both man and mount had been there for decades, perhaps for centuries. No one could ever tell him if it was some ancient tradition in the Westernlands to bury a man with his horse or it was just some coincidence. Anyway, he decided that the dead man took his horse with him because he wanted to ride in some heavenly meadow.

"I want to be buried with my horse," he says, though no one listens to him. _What would happen to Stranger once I'm gone? After all, I'm the only one who can mount him._

Behind them, men and women are shouting. Most of them want him dead, for sure. A woman emerges from the crowd and accuses him, her voice trembling with anger. Pointing at him, she explains he killed her daughter as she gathered kindling in the woods nearby. The woman mistakes him for someone else: a wolf, a lion, maybe his own brother. Gregor killing a poor girl in the woods is likely; it depends on how the girl was murdered. He would like to tell the woman that if her daughter suffered before her death it could be Gregor and his men. However, he's not sure of anything; these days are troubled. Since the war began, his brother isn't the only one looting the countryside, raping and murdering people. Dondarrion shouts them down, a tired look on his face.

"Sandor Clegane is guilty of those murders and he will be hanged. We'll take Lady Sansa to Riverrun, where her great-uncle waits for her."

"Lord Beric, you can't!" she protests. "If you sentence my husband to death for those murders, I shall be hanged as well. I told my husband to kill the merchants."

She hits the high notes when she says "my husband". These words are so unfamiliar to him every time he hears them from her mouth, he nearly jumps.

"Sansa, are you out of your mind?" he whispers, still holding her hands, but she ignores him.

Shouts and comments fill the sept as she stares Dondarrion down. The leader of the Brotherhood distrusts enemies such as the Lannisters' bannermen, but not a high-born girl whose father he respected. When his men told him they had found Sansa Stark, he didn't think she could be that tenacious.

"Let me explain what happened, will you?" she says in a commanding tone.

"Very well, my lady. We're listening to you."

Dondarrion makes a gesture and the boy who guarded him during the afternoon and calls himself Gendry brings back a stool, so that the Lightning Lord can sit down and rest his tired bones. In the ruined sept, the crowd becomes silent.

"After our wedding, we went to an inn, by the Green Fork. The place is called the Thistle. Some of you know it, I guess. We decided to spend the night out there. When we arrived, we saw two merchants. Maybe I should say they saw us, because they began to ask questions about who I was and what I was doing there. My husband was persuasive enough to make them stop, though. The morning after, the innkeeper understood who I was and wanted to take advantage. I talked to him, convinced him not to tell anyone and he finally agreed. He went to the stables with his daughter to prepare our horses. The merchants came and questioned him about us. When the innkeeper refused to answer them, they murdered him, after which they raped his daughter."

A new uproar fills the sept; Thoros of Myr observes her and whispers something to Dondarrion, who nods, an angry look on his face. Nevertheless, she goes on.

"When we found the girl, she told us these merchants were Lord Baelish's eyes and ears. They were looking for me. She had nobody to turn to, so we both decided – my husband and I – that we had to help the girl and find her father's murderers. Sandor left me with the girl and followed them. Did he kill those men? Yes, he did. We agreed on that point: the poor innkeeper deserved justice and my husband wanted to protect me from Lord Baelish. As I told him to kill the merchants, we shall be hanged and buried together."

"This is nonsense!" Harwin shouts. "He killed people then told her to lie and protect him."

"Clegane seems rather silent for a man who manipulates his young and lovely wife," Thoros comments. "Do you have something to say, Hound?"

Her gaze forbids him to talk. At this instant, her blue eyes shine with a coldness and a determination he never noticed. Nobody tried to save his life with such tenacity because nobody ever tried to save his life. He could only rely on himself until now and it's almost painful to realize what she's ready to do for him.

"Clegane?" Lost in thought, he nearly jumps when he hears Thoros' voice. Her eyes, once again, forbid him to say something stupid. He steps aside and she lets him go.

"I love her more than my own life. I would do anything to protect her; that's why I killed those men."

The crowd hangs onto his every word.

"Spare her: she's not able to harm anyone. She didn't hold the blade who killed them. I did."

He glances at her and only sees reproach on her face. _Stupid dog: she wants to save your life and you don't even help her. You make things worse. What's the point in confessing your love for her if you're swinging from a tree with crows feasting on your eyes?_ Petrified by anxiety, she hesitates. She thought her plea would overcome Dondarrion's determination. She thought he would fully agree with her or at least wouldn't resist when she tried to save him. _Bloody fool._

"These men were murderers," he adds. "And rapists. I did what I had to do. Besides, I swore vows when I married Sansa: I had to protect her."

Dondarrion gives a faint scowl. He shifts and crosses his long legs, astonished by his prisoner's reaction. That's what happens when you call yourself a dog: people believe in your loyalty and sooner or later, they persuade themselves your loyalty borders on devotion. Devotion and self-sacrifice don't make any difference for the likes of Dondarrion. The outlaw expected him to give his life gladly, not to present any argument.

"Where was the Brotherhood when this girl lost her father?" she says with a burst of pugnacity. "Where was the Brotherhood when men assaulted her? Lord Beric, you told us you only want justice. Sandor already dispensed justice when he killed the merchants. I stayed with the girl, I helped her clean herself and tried to comfort her. Words are winds; I never realized how true it is before that day. I knew nothing about what she had been through. I didn't know the fear, the hatred she felt, the feeling of shame and helplessness. All I could say came down to this: Sandor will find them. My husband will be back soon and they'll never hurt you again."

Her eyes are glistening with tears as she stands in front of Dondarrion, her back very straight. For a while, the crowd waits in silence, eager to know Lord Beric's decision.

"How do you explain the heads?" asks Harwin. He doesn't believe her, obviously.

She slowly turns to the Northerner and answers in a detached tone. "My husband knew how scared was the girl. He doesn't need to talk to people to see exactly what is important for them: he _feels_ it in his heart. She needed to feel safe, so that she could sleep again. He beheaded those men and brought back the proof they were dead. Their heads are buried near the Green Fork, though I'm not sure you'd visit their grave."

At this instant, he meets Gendry's eyes. The lad looks at him briefly before observing Sansa. There is neither lust nor curiosity in his gaze, only admiration. _The boy can see how strong she is. She reminds him of Arya. _

"I still don't understand how a deserter met Eddard Stark's daughter, a girl who vanished from the capital and hid herself from the Queen," points out Dondarrion. "No offense, Clegane, but how is it possible that _you_ married Lady Sansa?"

The only answer he gives him is a snort. "Think I don't deserve her, huh? In very truth, I don't understand either."

She gives him a fond look and he remembers how she treated him when they both lived in the Red Keep, how she managed to avoid his gaze, how terrified she was every time he talked to her. The foolish girl he used to mock is gone.

"Perhaps you should ask me why I chose Sandor," she says in a challenging tone. "After all, in a lawful marriage, both husband and spouse give their consent."

Her cutting remark irritates Dondarrion, who shifts once more.

"You married the Imp," he observes, brushing the purple marks on his neck. "I didn't approve what the Lannisters did to you, but you couldn't get married again."

"I was a prisoner," she answers. "They threatened me. Look at me straight in the eyes, my lord, and tell me I gave my free consent, when I married Tyrion Lannister... Any woman in this assembly can understand that."

As she glares at Lord Beric, several women shout their approval.

"I'd like to know how a septon agreed on this marriage," he says, frowning.

"My husband is a persuasive man."

Some peasants and a few members of the Brotherhood laugh, imagining him face to face with a septon shitting his smallclothes.

"I was a prisoner, and they forced me to marry someone I distrusted. Today, I'm a prisoner again. The scenery changed, the actors changed but it's the same mummer's farce. Queen Cersei said I had to marry her brother for my own good. You decided to send me to Riverrun for my own good. How generous. Queen Cersei wanted me by her side because Winterfell is mine. And you, my lord, you want me to go to Riverrun to ransom my uncle. You're just another Cersei."

In the crowded sept, her last remark sounds like a snap in Dondarrion's face.

"You're not in a position to give orders or to judge my decisions, my lady."

"You told this assembly you wanted to dispense justice. What kind of judge are you, my lord, when you separate a woman from her husband, when you decide to hang a man who avenged a poor girl? I'm not sure your brothers find this fair."

"Lady Sansa, the man you married was the faithful servant of your father's enemy, besides being a murderer. What would Eddard Stark say about your choice?"

"You're right, my lord, Sandor _was_ the Lannisters' servant. He left. My husband probably can't tell how many men he killed. And you, can you tell us how many men you slayed?"

With a hint of restlessness, Dondarrion scratches his cheek and replaces his eye-patch.

"Since you have an answer to everything, I'd like to know how Clegane met you, my lady."

"In the yard of my lord father castle," she says. "When King Robert came in the North."

"You're missing the point: I'd like to know how Clegane found you once you left King's Landing. Did he steal you from the Lannisters?"

A tricky question: he glances at her, his head pounding. She smooths her skirts, keeping her eyes down for a heartbeat or two. When she raises her head again, she looks so determined that Dondarrion winces.

"Lord Baelish stole me from the Lannisters and took me to the Eyrie. Sandor... Sandor stole me from Baelish. No matter what he said to me, that day; he wanted to protect me. He wanted me to stay with him."

She turns to him, bright red and smiling shyly.

"It seems you can't see beyond his scars or his reputation," she adds. "After all, I can't blame you: Sandor does his best to make people believe he's obnoxious. At first I fell into the trap, just like you did."

Dondarrion clears his throat.

"I love him," she says, ignoring Lord Beric's impatience. "I do not intend to remain passive. You can't separate us."

"She's right." The silent crowd jumps at the young masculine voice. Dondarrion looks around and frowns. For a heartbeat, he wonders who has the guts to challenge the Brotherhood's leader. Gendry steps forward.

"It's- it's not fair," he mumbles. "We should let her go. I mean we should let them go."

Appalled by Gendry's remark, Dondarrion shakes his head as the whole assembly whisper.

"Seems like Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill mulled over knighthood and takes it very seriously," comments a man wrapped in a yellow cloak, causing the Brotherhood's mirth.

"Oh, shut up, Lem!" says Gendry, standing in front of him.

Though the yellow cloak is quite tall, the boy almost towers above him. Tension mounts between these two and the peasants whisper again, awaiting a tussle; neither Dondarrion nor Thoros succeeds in separating them. The two men quarreling draw everybody's attention, offering him a brief respite. Is it possible that she said the truth, not about their wedding but about the rest? _Seven buggering hells, is she sincere? I have to know, even if it's the last thing I do._ She's right here on his left, her back very straight, looking at Lord Beric, still waiting for his decision. After a while, she becomes aware he's gazing at her and slightly turns. She raises her blue eyes towards him in such a way that he's convinced of her honesty. Or maybe he wants to be convinced. _Perhaps she's just lying to save my life and I am a bloody fool to believe someone can love me. If that's the way it is, I chose to be a bloody fool._ She comes closer and nestles her head against his upper arm. He doesn't have the time to enjoy the moment, though; when he meets Harwin's eyes, he immediately perceives the Northerner's animosity. It's not only distrust; Harwin lets him know their couple is something unnatural, an aberration. _So things will be like this, if she ever manages to save my skin; she will be the foolish girl who wastes her time with an ugly, monstrous man. How long can she put up with everybody's disapproval? _

"Enough!" Dondarrion growls. "I need to think about all I heard tonight."

Gendry positions himself next to them and shows everyone he takes their side, as the yellow cloak joins his brothers, cursing in a low tone. She steps forward once more.

"Lord Beric, I've heard about your struggle against ser Gregor. My lord father sent you in the Riverlands with this goal in mind and you fought bravely: your scars prove it. However, you can't kill my husband in retaliation. You know what kind of relationship ser Gregor has with his brother: my father often praised your eye for detail-"

"Precisely, ser Gregor pierced Lord Beric's eye!" the yellow cloak mocks and the whole Brotherhood bursts out laughing.

She ignores them and focuses on her plea.

"Tell me, my lord, how will ser Gregor react when he'll heard you hanged his brother? He won't decide to avenge Sandor's death, far from it. He will only blame you for killing Sandor before he could get hold of him. Is this what you want?"

All of a sudden, she walks towards Dondarrion and almost leans over him.

"You and my husband have more in common than what you think. Both of you seek revenge. Your face and his bear marks of Gregor's cruelty," she whispers, so that few people can listen to her. Dondarrion winces, but when he looks at him he seems to notice his burnt cheek for the first time.

The crowded sept goes silent as she slowly steps backwards. After a while, Lord Beric looks all around the assembly. He doesn't want his brothers' or the peasants' approval; he's only showing his power on them.

"Why are you so silent, Clegane?" Thoros asks, with a sly expression on his face.

"My wife is good with words as I am good with a sword." _Might as well be honest._

"So a big man like you needs a champion to defend himself... and you found Lady Sansa," the red priest comments.

Thoros and Dondarrion look at each other, smiling like two rascals about to play a trick.

"Very well," Lord Beric says, "Sandor Clegane, we'll give you a chance to prove your innocence and to show you're as good with a sword as you pretend. Trial by combat. We'll fight at dawn."

* * *

**Thanks a lot for the kind reviews I received lately. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I had fun writing it...If you like it, let me know!  
**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

He opens his eyes as the first ray of light comes in the hut but he barely slept. All night, images were churning around in his head and his heart beat wildly, as he tried to rest.

A few hours earlier, he heard her protesting when Dondarrion announced he would have to fight to prove his innocence; the crowd went mad. Women she had convinced yelled it wasn't fair while most of the men, including the members of the Brotherhood smiled and congratulated themselves in anticipation. _Buggers, don't cry victory too early. Your leader is a broken man; if my fucking brother killed him twice, I can slay him as well._ The news of their sword fight galvanized him, at first. He didn't realize they would fight the morning after; he felt ready to face Dondarrion now and almost waited for someone to untie him and to give him his sword. He smelt blood but the waiting time shattered his determination and spoiled everything.

"No," she cried. "I told you all you need to know, my lord! Can't you see he's innocent?"

Dondarrion scowled and looked round, weighing the consequences of his decision on the Brotherhood and the peasants: Gendry's face reflected both his disappointment and his animosity towards the yellow cloak. Some of the members of the Brotherhood praised their leader's choice, some kept silent. Among the smallfolk, there was no half-measure: as women shouted their disapproval, men scoffed at him and looked forward to the fight. When Harwin and one of the other buggers grabbed his arms and tried to lead him outside, she fell on her knees.

"My lord, I beg you! I don't want to be separated from my husband. If this must be his last night, I'll spend the night with him, as it ought to be."

Some men laughed at a saucy jape; perhaps the thought of his last night with her seemed a saucy jape to them.

"You are not up to decide what ought to be, my lady. You'll say your farewells to Clegane tomorrow morning."

Lord Beric sounded adamant: her sobs didn't move the outlaw who remained very still when his next day opponent left. As for himself, he was struggling with the men who shoved him outside and led him to the hut where he spent the afternoon. They tied his ankles and he rewarded them with some kicks; he gained a few more bruises before they left him. Harwin sat on the threshold, his sword in hand. Someone came to replace Harwin, at the end of the night shift, before he could close his eyes. Then he fell in a restless sleep and the dream came back.

Centennial trees seemed to fade in the mist, but she was silhouetted against the blurred landscape. As usual, she was very still, her back to him. He walked towards her and she felt his presence, turning slightly and smiling in anticipation. She didn't look straight in his eyes though. "What are you afraid of?" she teased. To his astonishment, he wasn't scared nor frightened by the situation. The landscape itself didn't seem ominous. After a while, he realized he was holding something in his hands: he lowered his eyes and saw his ragged cloak. Someone had sewed his sigil on the worn-out fabric: three black dogs on a yellow field. As he lifted his cloak, he understood the meaning of his nightmare. There was no real threat, no visible danger or enemy, just himself and what he felt. Admitting his love for her took him months; at first, he struggled, mocking her naïvety, cursing and saying obscenities on purpose. He made himself coarse and despicable while he wanted to cherish her, just because he didn't know how to behave. She used to say she lacked experience, however when it came to feelings, she was not so callow. He was but a child, shifting from foot to foot, getting angry every time his emotions went out of control. All this became clear in a heartbeat. He lifted the cloak and wrapped her shoulders with it. There was no blood, no threat, no bad feeling, just a man with a lump in his throat because he was making a choice. All things considered, giving up a routine made of sword fights and waiting hours at court had been easy but somehow, leaving behind his new wandering life and his dreams of being a sellsword in Essos was more difficult. He had to leap into the unknown and face new responsibilities. _Marry her._

Once awake, he realizes nothing has changed around him: the hut smells of piss, the rope still bruises his wrists and his guard snores noisily on the threshold, like every damn guard in Westeros. _If I die today, __I'll die as a married man. Dondarrion can't take it away from me._ He smiles. Nearby, two larks are singing, repeating doggedly the same notes. At this instant, he's sure he got rid of his nightmare; the whole thing isn't ominous. It doesn't foreshadow any threat, except the consequences of his blindness if he ignored his emotions. The bad dream contains no danger he couldn't avoid: holding back his feelings and leaving her would have been the only true nightmare.

The guard gives a bigger snort and suddenly awakes to find him sat and almost ready. The man, a shaggy fellow of five-and-forty at least, is surprised but keeps his thoughts for himself. He calls a woman passing by and tells him to bring water and food. The woman shrugs, making it clear she doesn't want to be considered as a maid. She nevertheless comes back with black bread and a bucket of water she almost throws at the guard's feet, in front of the hut. His guard unties him and points at the bucket: he washes his hands and face, after which he gobbles down the stale bread. He understands it's time to leave when he notices his guard pacing up and down. The cloudless sky takes strange colors at this hour of the day: yellow, orange and even a dark pink. He goes back to the sept, the shaggy man on his heels. His guard watches him closely, his hand on the grip on his sword, a distrustful look on his wrinkled face. The ruined sept doesn't seem as crowded as it was the night before, though the members of the Brotherhood surround Dondarrion. Many peasants got back to their duties because they can't waste their time watching the show Lord Beric and himself are about to give. This is a show; all executions are dramatized and meant to convince smallfolk that justice is efficient. His eyes meet many curious looks, even if some people are gone: old men, women and children crowd in the back of the sept. She's here, as well, standing aside with Gendry. As soon as he comes in the sept, accompanied by the shaggy man, she walks towards him, ignoring Dondarrion's gesture to make her stop. She turns to the Brotherhood's leader, both surprised and exasperated. "Boor, insensitive pig," her eyes seem to say.

"Can't we have some privacy?" she asks with a hint of arrogance.

Dondarrion shakes his head. _He's scared_, he suddenly realizes. _He's afraid she's with child and tries to estimate the possible loss if Brynden Tully learned his niece isn't a maiden. All this is absurd._

She grabs his wrists and looks at the bruised skin.

"I'm fine," he says, trying to reassure her. She didn't sleep either, on the evidence of the dark circles under her eyes.

They both hesitate; everyone, including Dondarrion, expects them to say their farewells right here. Kissing her in full sight of the Brotherhood seems incongruous; however, if they want him to act as if he was her lawful husband... _This is perhaps my only occasion._ She forestalls him and takes him in her arms. It feels like the first time he embraces her : she's both warm and shivering as he puts his hands on her hips. He's embarrassed but not for the reason he lost his composure that day. Holding her tight became something rather natural and today he's only annoyed by the nosy looks on them.

"I checked on Stranger and he's fine," she whispers. "He misses you, though he can't miss you as much as I did last night. I don't want to lose you."

Before she can finish her sentence, she begins to cry and buries her face in his tunic.

"Gregor killed this bugger twice. Don't you think I can do the same?"

Raising her head to meet his gaze, she smiles at his remark, then wipes her tears. All of a sudden, he has a lump in his throat. _Like in my fucking dream. But I have to do this and tell her._

"I love you," he rasps. "Thought I could just ignore it and it would disappear, but it didn't. And now we're fucked up... I didn't protect you as I should have. I failed you."

"Don't talk like that," she says, his fingers brushing his swollen lips.

"Thank you for what you did last night. You saved my life." _Just an overnight surcease, maybe._

"Don't thank me," she answers, fighting back her tears. "Take your sword and show him what swordplay is like."

She stands on tiptoe, cups his face and kiss him, forgetting the curious crowd and the impending danger. The only thing that now matters is the sensation of her lips on his. One hand on the back of her neck and the other around her waist, he deepens his kiss and almost crushes her against him, eager to touch her. At this instant, she can feel his need for her but he doesn't care. _For everyone of them, I'm her __husband._ Since he's involved in a parody of justice, he might as well piss out of the ragged crowd and play the part they gave him. _A mummer's farce inside a mummer's farce. _She's playing her part too, kissing him back, so persuasive Dondarrion suddenly interrupt them.

"Enough!" he shouts from the place where he stands, surrounded by the jeering men of the Brotherhood.

They obey but her arms are still around his neck and she looks at him in a way that could drive him mad in other circumstances. She breaks with him reluctantly; while her hands linger on his arms, he seizes the opportunity to touch her waist. Putting his palm on her belly, he meets her eyes and they exchange a smile. As soon as they see this, the peasants begin to whisper again, imagining she could be with child. If he could take his eyes out off her face, he would surely notice Dondarrion's angry expression, but for now, her sly look captivates him. She understands what he's doing. _Perhaps it's unfair, but I want him to have doubts about his ability to ransom her and about our fight. He chose to fight instead of freeing us like he should have done, after all._ She takes her time to join the crowd, stopping near Gendry. Livid, Dondarrion lets a youth with a quiver on his back help him with his mail. His opponent is just a pale figure, compared to the Dornishman he met in King's Landing. For a heartbeat, Lord Beric's thin tunic reveals his gauntness and even a large and deep wound on his chest. _Through his chest?_ _Smallfolk said my fucking brother impaled him on a lance._ _Could it be true?_ The tattered men surrounding Dondarrion stare at their leader in awe as someone brings him his gauntlets. Their admiration for him is close to piety. The fact that Beric is still alive after being injured and thought dead several times have a lot to do with the respect both the Brotherhood and the peasants show to the red priest. They would have rejected Thoros otherwise.

Gendry suddenly leaves Sansa and walks towards him, carrying his equipment and weapons. The boy helps him under Dondarrion's watchful gaze and it becomes clear that Arya's companion in misery is accustomed to blades and mail. When it's done, the boy steps backwards, as if he wanted to take a look at him: no matter what lies the little she-wolf told her friend about him, at this instant, the lad is both admiring and concerned.

The crowd goes silent while he walks towards the center of the sept, hefting his bastard sword. _A deserter facing an outlaw: the Lannisters would be pleased. Whatever the outcome may be, the fight will relieve them of one rebel. _Dondarrion still waits for his sword. He wonders for a second if some careless member of the Brotherhood misplaced the weapon but when he notices the fire Thoros lit, his heart skips a beat. _Oh no, not this sanctimony... _The red priest clad in his faded robes takes a deep breath and begins to thank his god and gesticulate, trying to thrill the crowd. Most of the members of the Brotherhood and perhaps half the peasants sing the response. His face lit by the flames, Thoros lifts up a sword then plunges it into the fire. In the silent sept, the hissing sound of the flames licking the blade sends shivers down his spine. Mesmerized by the sight of the sword ablaze, he can't move nor think; his strength deserts him. Dondarrion and Thoros knew exactly what they were doing when they ordered a trial by combat. Still mumbling a prayer, the red priest shows the blade set on fire, waiting for the exclamations of the crowd, after which he gives the sword to Dondarrion.

"You wanted to prove your innocence," says Lord Beric in a disdainful tone. "So be it."

The pallid man who wasn't steady on his feet a while ago now seems fierce and confident. His head his pounding as Dondarrion's glimmering gauntlets tighten the grip of his sword to brandish it like a torch. There are only a few yards between them and his opponent knows how to wave his blade to make him stay away. The damn thing glows and crackles, distracts his attention from the fight while Lord Beric side-steps to his left. _My left side, my burnt cheek... Bastard!_ It can't be a coincidence.

"Focus on my voice!" she shouts but he can't see her; he's lost the sense of direction.

"Shut up, woman!" a man yells at her. "Or else I put a gag on your pretty mouth!"

"I'm right here, behind you," she adds, ignoring the threat.

Dondarrion strikes so close to his hand the flames lick his knuckles. This first blow forces him to counter-attack, but he's so confused he messes everything up: he waves his sword blindly several times, wasting his energy and giving his enemy enough time to avoid him. All strength and no discernment; that's exactly what his father taught him not to do when he was a boy. Dondarrion strings precise blows together, almost touching him every time and he loses his composure. The fucking burning sword moves fast and he's not able to foresee anything. For the first time in his life, he feels like he's at his opponent's mercy, forced to step back. _Just as if the Dornish bastard was trying to make me dance._

"I'm here," she says in a high-pitched tone. "Don't let me go to Riverrun!"

Her remark seems to disturb Dondarrion, who frowns at her, but perhaps her presence annoyed Lord Beric from the beginning. He didn't have a close look at his opponent since the fight began, so he can't tell. The aim of this fight vanished as soon as he saw the flames and her voice helps him to focus on it again, shattering his enemy's effort to distract him and make him weak. Dondarrion tried to take unfair advantage of his well-known fear; keeping his goal in mind is the safest way to win his trial. All of a sudden, he remembers his meeting in the woods with Littlefinger's men two days after he stole her; he was drunk, taken unawares and alone. He didn't wonder though, and defended her, in spite of his anger at the foolish and incomprehensible girl she was. _But why I really fighting for her or trying to protect my prize? I was just obsessed by the thought of her being alone with Littlefinger. Being with me or the other one didn't make any difference for her: she was just a prize changing hands. The only difference between Littlefinger and me was I had no plans for her. At that moment, I had no plans for her._ He doesn't understand either why Thoros' words struck him the night before and now come back as a litany: _"You're a lucky man... It seems that you're a lucky man, Clegane."_

A swift blow makes Dondarrion step back and he breathes easier. Her muffled scream lets him know she's on his right, staring at him, praying for his safety. His ordinary self would mock her but it finds it perfectly right. Even godless men respect religion when they risk their life and someone prays for them. Lord Beric's counter-attack is not long coming; the outlaw strikes angrily and succeeds in setting his sleeve on fire. The pain in his forearm comes before the sensation of burning and the fear of what may happen – a fear he tried to hide for many years – precedes them both. Cursing and groaning, he vainly tries to get rid of the flames licking his sleeve. Neither his experience of the battlefield who hardened him nor the fact that those flames are more spectacular than really dangerous calms him down.

"Do what you have to do!" she begs.

Another man threatens her as he gathers his strength and strings swift movements together. Dondarrion retreats, forcing the frightened peasants to step aside. He can ignore his burning sleeve, as long as the flames stay away of his face and he still can win: Lord Beric is a broken man, he'll soon be too tired to hold his sword...

Some men are shouting, making their way through the crowd; he nevertheless focuses on his opponent, sensing the weariness in his last blows. Members of the Brotherhood shush the new comers without success.

"Lord Beric!" one of them cries. "Lord Beric!"

"Later! Justice has to be done."

"My lord, this is far too important! I have bad news."

Dondarrion freezes, keeping him at bay with his long sword. He does the same, hoping the messenger will give him enough time to get rid of the flames on his forearm. Stepping back, he gives a mocking bow to his opponent and hurries to put out the fire. _Fine._

His back to him, breathing noisily, the leader of the Brotherhood is listening to the messenger who interrupted the trial by combat. The man, a skinny youth with a bald head crowned with some black hair, bends the back in front of his lord.

"I was near the Red Fork when I met an old man who came from the Tumblestone. He saw a Lannister host and-"

"So what?" Dondarrion shouts.

"They besiege Riverrun, my lord. The boy king's men are everywhere."

_Her great-uncle... _He turns to her and sees the concern in her eyes, though she doesn't really know the Blackfish. Right after, he realizes she's not valuable anymore for Dondarrion: he can't ransom her great-uncle. Perhaps he could sell her to the Lannisters... _Walk into the lion's den and let them kill him once more?_ And even a bastard like Beric wouldn't bring her back to her former tormentors. All around them, the peasants exchange distraught looks as Dondarrion's men gather around him, waiting for his opinion. The Lannisters' presence with their host is the worst thing that could happen. For the smallfolk, it means new threats. No army marches on a castle without looting and murdering people: Gregor and his men already proved it. The Brotherhood provided the peasants a surcease but the outlaws will soon be on the run, hunted like stags in the woods of the Riverlands. It's not that they're not used to hide and escape the king's men, but a host... Hundreds, maybe thousands of men setting their camp by the Red Fork will try to catch them once Riverrun yields. Because they will take the castle, no matter how brave is Brynden Tully. Even the seasoned men of the Brotherhood show their dismay.

All of a sudden, Dondarrion gives his burning sword to Thoros and he understands it's over. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Dornishman turns to her and meets her eyes.

"These are bad news for both of us, my lady," he starts. "The Blackfish is a great warrior, besides being a clever man. I hope your great-uncle will give the boy king's men a hard time. As for you, Lady Sansa, you're free to go."

"What about Sandor?" she asks, hitting the high notes.

Dondarrion looks at both of them and keeps silent, clenching his jaw, scratching the skin covered by his eye-patch.

"Will you free me and let me go alone in the woods, while the Lannister host is at the gates?" she mocks. "Are you able to protect me if I stay with your... men? No, of course, you're not. Don't think you'll be magnanimous if you let me go and keep my husband as a prisoner."

"She's damn right!" a woman shouts.

Dondarrion frowns.

"I want my husband, my gold and our horses," she says with coldness. "No more, no less than what we had when your men took us here."

Trying to keep calm, the leader of the Brotherhood makes a gesture and Thoros sends away the peasants. A few children complain because they wanted to see the fight but their families have better to do than linger in the sept: some already talk about leaving the village. After a short while, the ruins of the sept only gather Dondarrion's men and both of them. She scrutinizes the burnt skin of his forearm and stands by him. Harwin suddenly breaks the silence as Dondarrion sits wearily on a stool.

"Where... where are you going to?" he asks her.

"I want to go North," she explains. "To Winterfell."

"This is not safe, nor wise, my lady," Lord Beric comments in a courteous tone. "Even the Riverlands are safer. The Freys and the Boltons hold the North and they will find you. They will never give up."

The stubborn girl who lied and bargained with a bunch of outlaws for him doesn't give up either. She shrugs and smiles at the man sat on the stool. Dondarrion is so abashed by her reaction he turns to him.

"I warned her," he tells the Dornishman. "It makes no difference: she wants to go North."

"White Harbor, then," Dondarrion advises. "Lord Manderly may have many weaknesses but he's not a traitor. He's loyal to your family. Some say he's negotiating with the Lannisters but I don't believe it. With a man like Lord Lamprey, the Lannisters could be caught at their own game."

He pauses and looks through an old arch of the sept. The sun is high in the sky; clouds gather in the north, both white and grey. Next days and weeks promise hardships for the leader of the Brotherhood.

* * *

As she demanded it, Harwin and Gendry gave them back their horses and their belongings. Dondarrion thought of taking half the gold they carried, on the grounds that the Brotherhood would use it wisely whereas they don't need so much to go to White Harbor, but she bargained once more and got what she wanted. _Never negotiate with a spoiled child. _

They're on horseback, ready to go and while she's with Harwin, taking leave, Gendry comes to him.

"You'll protect her, right?" the boy asks.

He nods, grinning. Gendry pats Stranger's neck as if his horse was as gentle as a lamb.

"You'll see her again someday," he rasps.

"Who are you talking about? Lady Sansa ?"

"No, boy. Don't pretend to ignore who I'm talking about. You'll see her again, I'm sure."

Blushing like a maiden, Gendry stares at his worn-out boots. She joins them and says farewell to Arya's friend. They leave the village where some peasants pack their meager belongings to flee while the other ones accept their fate and get back to their duties.

_Canter first, no need to hurry. It seems so long since I ride a horse. Must be the same for her._ They don't talk: each one has enough to think about after their meeting with the Brotherhood. _But we'll have to talk, very soon._ For now, he only sees the sunny weather and enjoys the sensation of being free. They're both free and riding together. All of a sudden, as they stray from the path to avoid curious looks, he can't help laughing. She doesn't notice it at first but when he roars with laughter she stares at him, surprised and almost shocked. The sound coming out of his lungs is so harsh and loud it disturbs the birds perched on the nearest tree and makes them fly away. _This is ridiculous. I frighten the birds and scare her. I probably look like a moron._ He can't restrain himself, though.

_You can't understand, love. That's why soldiers need dirty jokes and bawdy songs: because laughing is the best way to remember you escaped death. Because you need to feel alive._

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! **


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The deserted barn looks as good as another place to spend the night in spite of one collapsed wall and the missing tiles on the roof. At least, the walls and the framework will protect them. She became shy after the last events and refused to look for an inn. Perhaps she'll soon admit Dondarrion was right when he told them not to go North. _But she's hardheaded... She won't change her mind easily._ The stubborn little girl comes back from the wood carrying kindling, her hair damp, avoiding his gaze. She says she found a stream down the hill and bathed. The place seems peaceful, she adds in the civil tone she never gave up in King's Landing and he disliked so much. Does it mean she wants him to go out there and give her some space? Does she rue the lie she repeated to save his life? She can't take it back but maybe she wishes to do so.

He's as embarrassed and as confused as he was on the first days of their journey: but she didn't know he loved her when they spent their nights by the fire, unable to speak. He feels weak and stupid now that she knows everything. _Perhaps she did it on charity and doesn't want me to believe a single word._ As usual, he gulps his food – brown bread and cheese given by some peasant woman – while she takes her time and keeps her good manners. As a result of his gluttony, he soon has nothing to do and gives the cracked wall a blank stare, waiting for her to finish her meal. Unable to bear the silence anymore, he clears his throat.

"We have to talk," he points out. "If you regret the things you said back in the village-"

"I don't regret what I said!" she protests. She leaves the warm spot where she sat to kneel beside him. "How can you think-"

"Why are you so cold, then?" He feels so lost at this moment that he looks at her without trying to conceal his feelings: his fears, his affection for her are visible but he doesn't care. She shakes her head.

"So you will never trust me?" she asks, on the verge of tears. "You think it's easy for me? All this is new. And I don't know what will come next. The truth is, I'm scared. It felt easier to speak my mind out there, even in front of dozens of people."

"You were playing a part," he says ruthlessly, staring at the flames.

When he meets her eyes again, she looks incensed.

"How can you doubt my word after all we've been through?" she asks. "I don't regret what I said. I didn't lie, except when I told Lord Beric we were married."

Her blue eyes are full of tears and he can measure her efforts to stay calm.

"Why are you torturing me like this? I thought you would reassure me but instead of that, you're as awful as you were in King's Landing... You're supposed to be the grown-up."

Her reproaches are well-founded and he's conscious of his despicable behavior. Getting on his feet, he leaves her by the fire and sits on the collapsed wall of the barn. At dusk, all he can see is a bunch of trees with their bare branches shivering in the cold wind on his right. In the distance, there must be the stream she bathed in. All of a sudden, there is a little hand brushing his shoulder, lingering on his upper arm.

"Talk to me."

"I'm no good with words," he answers, ashamed.

"It doesn't matter. Let me have a look at your arm."

As it's almost dark, she leads him back to where they ate a while ago and gently rolls his sleeve up. In places, the fabric sticks to the burnt skin, making him wince. She cleans it with fresh water, then shifts to scrutinize his swollen lip. The blow he received right after Stranger kicked out and injured a member of the Brotherhood left dirty marks on his face, on the evidence on her concerned look. Kneeling in front of him, she uses her handkerchief to apply water on his lower lip. When he puts his hands on her hips instinctively, she freezes.

"You trust me now?" she asks.

Repentant and shamefaced, he nods.

"I- I never doubt you," he explains. "It's just that... I don't deserve-"

She cuts him off. "Say it, please. Say you trust me."

He suddenly realizes how young she is, in spite of her motherly attitude.

"I trust you. And I love you." He tightens his grip on her.

"Will you marry me?"

"If you want to marry me. But you know what it means: I don't own any castle. I don't own anything. I can't even promise you a decent wedding. Neither pretty clothes nor a feast-"

"I was given a pretty dress and a feast and, trust me, it was one the saddest days of my life. I'd rather eat stale bread. And I prefer the blue dress I was wearing the day you stole me."

"I'm not a good match for you."

"Don't talk like that," she protests, brushing his lip again. Her gesture is not meant to soothe his pain; it looks more and more like a caress. He cups her face and kisses her hungrily. She lets him do as he pleases, leaning against him, her arms wrapped around his neck when she suddenly tries to break with him. At first, he thinks she's out of breath and needs a second or two before he can kiss her again, but she lowers her gaze and blushes.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Did I- Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head, ill-at-ease, brushing his collarbone. "I loved it. I was wondering... what's next? What will happen tonight?"

"Nothing."

His answer surprises her so much she raises her head and locks eyes with him. The flames are flickering yellow and orange on her face, giving life to the turmoil of her inner thoughts: images churn in her head and she's struggling with them, trying to understand what he said.

"We have plenty of time," he adds, with as much confidence as he can. _If nobody takes you away or kill us before._

Her features seem suddenly very serious as she pats his shoulder before burying her face in his neck.

"I thought you would like... I mean I want to be your wife, which involves-"

"Which involves nothing. You're exhausted and so am I. Besides, you don't know what you want."

"I know what I want!" she protests, trying to escape from his arms.

As far as he remembers, the moments when she loses her temper invariably awaken something wolfish inside him, something he has to restrain for now. He stands up and helps her get on her feet, then points at the heap of straw some crofter left in the corner of the barn long ago.

"Time to go to bed, girl."

* * *

They spent the night curled under his cloak. As usual when he wakes up, she has her back to him; this routine in itself pleases him, like something completely natural and obvious. She stretches her limbs, then pats his hand resting on her waist.

"Did you sleep well?" he rasps.

From where he is all he can see is her high-cheek becoming round and pink: a proof that she smiles.

"Where are you going to find a septon?" she asks.

"In a sept. That's a good start."

Her burst of laughter delights him and he seizes the opportunity to hold her tight.

"I owe you an apology," he adds. "You damn know what you want."

She squirms to face him and her red cheeks suggest something embarrassing. _Embarrassing for both of us._

"I've been thinking and there's something else I want," she says in a low voice. "I- I don't want to wait."

His silence ruffles her; the blue eyes peer at his face, waiting for his reaction.

"No, not now."

"Why?" she asks. In her vehement tone, he can recognize the spoiled little girl she once was.

"Not accustomed to contradiction, huh?" he mocks. "There's no need to hurry and... I want a true wedding night. Unlike you, I never got married." _And I feel as awkward as you are._

She stares at him then lowers her gaze, chewing her lip. Her expression amuses him and, for a heartbeat, he thinks of staying here all day, lying on the straw, looking at the worm-eaten beams of the barn while a howling wind would make the inhabitants of the Riverlands shut themselves up in their hovels. All of a sudden, she shifts and kisses him on the temple. _You're a lucky man, Clegane._

* * *

As the rest of the Riverlands, war devastated Saltpans; burned shops and ruined alehouses shocked her when they arrived, so that he didn't need to remind her of raising her hood. Her pretty face disappeared under the brown fabric and she stayed so close her shoulder kept brushing his arm while they walked through the streets of the harbor, looking for a place to spend the night. A square keep cast a shadow on the grim buildings and even that seemed ominous.

Despite the gloomy atmosphere and the difficulties he foresaw, he rapidly found a ship sailing to White Harbor on the following day and a decent room in some old tavern. The place was almost deserted, but the few sailors hanging around and swilling ale made her shy. She asked if she could stay upstairs, have a bath and wash her clothes while he would listen to the men's conversations in order to learn the latest news. Once he has had enough of murders and slaughters told by sailors who like to go into detail, he climbs the stairs that lead to their room and finds her washing his filthy clothes. She ignores him when he protests: she explains it's almost done and suggests he could ask for some more hot water, so that he can take a bath.

Another room, another wooden barrel used as a tub, another awkward moment when she reaches the only window to stare at the sullen streets weaving at the foot of the castle.

"I know you won't look at me," he teases. "You're not the kind of girl who spies on a man taking his bath. Your septa raised you well."

She doesn't answer and he sits opposite the window; this way he can see her. After a long day on horseback and several nights under the stars, hot water soothes his sore limbs and he grunts his approval. _I'm getting old. Time flies. Sooner or later, every long ride will become an ordeal and every time I lay on the ground, I'll look more and more like a recumbent statue. _When his left forearm reaches the water, the sting comes back and he curses. She slightly turns her head and asks if he's all right, then keeps quiet until he gets out of the tub and does a pair of breeches.

"That's better," she comments with a mischievous smile, grabbing his tunic and hiding the white fabric behind her back before he can pull it on. As she's standing before him, he realizes how difficult it is to restrain himself. Shadows creep over the room now that the sun goes down. A man they called the Hound would have found her mouth-watering and would have taken advantage of the dark. He almost did it once, when he was in his cups and broken by a battle on the shores of the Blackwater. He could have hurt her with his dagger that night. _I didn't need a dagger to hurt her, though._ _I was the dagger, sharp and unsheathed._ Trying to bring back together the bitter man he was and the one he has become during his stay in the woods and his journey with her, he stops in front of the pale girl whose smile vanished as he was brooding on his past. He pushes a lock behind her ear then kisses her so eagerly she gasps. His fingers on the back of her neck tangle in her damp hair and he embraces her. She's standing on tiptoe but he finds it quite uncomfortable so he breaks with her and makes her lay on the bed.

"I said I wanted a true wedding night," he whispers. "Doesn't mean we can't play games."

"Still playing games, are we?" Her voice reveals a mix of apprehension and curiosity. She smiles as he lies down by her side and doesn't protest when he kisses her neck and collarbone; her skin is fresh but doesn't have the salty taste that drove him mad a few days earlier. When she shivers, he feels lost and unable to stop all the same. Once he has reached the neckline of her dress, he pauses and begins to undo the laces. She puts her small hand on his, a puzzled look on her face.

"Promise me something, first," she says. Her pale fingers contrast with his tanned and rough hands.

"I swear I'll eat every charred rabbit you'll cook for me, if it makes you feel better."

"Stop making fun of me, please!"

He gives a sigh and looks at her straight in the eyes, trying to ignore his need.

"I've been thinking," she says, "and I know we're going to a dangerous place. Not that I want to go back, but I'm conscious of the threats we will have to face in the North. What happened with the Brotherhood convinced me that we ought to make a pact. If we can't go to Winterfell, we'll go back to the Thistle and try to help Ella. But if we fail..."

Her voice suddenly breaks.

"Hush... I'll protect you."

"They could have killed you," she answers stubbornly. "And at least, we could talk with the Brotherhood. It's not the same if we run into Lord Baelish's men. I just- I just don't want to be a prisoner again and I don't want to survive you. That's why, if it turns out badly, I want you to make sure I won't be anyone's prisoner. The Tarbecks did the same when Tywin Lannister besieged their castle and they refused to yield. We're somehow facing the same situation, with so many enemies, and we should act in a similar way: no surrender."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"On the contrary, I've never been so clearheaded. Maybe I can't fight but I can die bravely. If you love me, promise you won't let me be a prisoner again. Promise you'll kill me before facing whoever attacks us."

_She's so young_, he realizes. _She has her whole life in front of her. She doesn't even understand a prisoner's life is still a better choice for her than a quick death. How can I reason her?_ He can't follow her wish but she seems so tough-minded he suddenly have doubts on his ability to convince her. The blue eyes stare at him, waiting for his answer, determined not to yield.

"Ask me whatever you want, but don't ask me to kill you. I love you-"

"If you truly love me, you have to promise," she says, choking back tears.

As he doesn't comply, he can read frustration on her face then she shifts and draws him close to her.

"Swear you won't leave me behind," she whispers, kissing his neck in spite of his beard, her hands running down his torso. She goes on, speaking softly and brushing his bare skin, making his heart beat wildly. No woman ever touched him like this; he can't ignore his arousal and can't restrain himself for long. As soon as he begins to kiss her back, she stops him.

"Promise," she commands ruthlessly, ignoring his need.

He hesitates, looking at the laces he tried to undo a few moments before. Her gaze almost challenges him, if only because she knows his weaknesses. A man who tied her to a tree not to hurt her can't resist for a long time. This dress Ella gave her has a low neckline and he knew from the beginning it was a bad idea. Now it seems that her breasts are going to pop out of the bodice.

"I'll do whatever it takes to protect you," he rasps. "But if I can't protect you anymore-"

"Say it."

"If I can't protect you anymore, I'll make sure nobody steal you from me. I'll do it and die right after that."

Her lips meet his and their kiss seems so desperate he's sure he never experienced something like this. His heart is pounding as he fights with the laces of her dress, deepening his kiss, but he can't let himself go. There's this haunting question he can't simply overlook, in spite of his need for her. _What have I done?_

* * *

Four days after they left Saltpans on a galley called _Brave Borcas_, they see White Harbor. At least, they hear a sailor yelling that they are approaching the seat of House Manderly. To have a look at the white city wrapped in the mist, they should have gone on the upper deck instead of staying in the captain's cabin. The small, dimly-lit room where he banged his head every time he forgot to bend has been their refuge since they sailed; she made it clear she didn't like being on the deck. The sailors' inquisitive and bawdy gazes annoyed her. _Another result of our forced visit to the Brotherhood: every man becomes a potential enemy._ She decided to spend the voyage sheltered from the crew's curious looks and never agreed to go for a walk on the deck without him.

"After all, I don't like ships and I have better things to do," she commented. Like kissing him or hiding his tunic and his boots so that he couldn't leave her. She turned out to be more waggish than he would have thought. Behind the well-behaved child of an ancient house lied a mischievous girl enjoying the power she had on him. During four days, they stayed in the cabin, chatting and sleeping curled under a pelt, kissing each other. Their game went on, as well. He liked to scrutinize her face as she was in his arms: the auburn hair growing on her temple and her blushing cheek when she woke up after a nap were worthy of the past months and their procession of hardships and interrogations. Her pale breasts justified the sufferings he endured for her. Neither her curves nor her soft moaning when he touched her made him forget the stupid oath she had extorted from him in Saltpans, though. When he wandered on the deck, glaring at the sailors who dared to ask him if the young lady would join them someday or why they were heading towards White Harbor, he felt guilty about it: he should have refused without compromise. He should have shut his mouth the night he told her the story of House Tarbeck, to begin with. Young and naïve as she was, he made a mistake in telling her how a noble family had agreed to die instead of kneeling. He used to mock her love for chivalry songs but the Tarbecks were his own version of Florian and the Dragonknight. A darker, bloody version of legendary knights, thanks to Tywin Lannister. Their story struck her mind and now she wanted to die with him. _Foolish girl._ Happily, he didn't taught her to use weapons. Every time he ducked into the small room, his guilt remained but it lessened as she embraced him. Remorse nevertheless haunted him even when he slipped his hand under her skirts. Soon she would be his wife; she even pressed him to find a septon.

When a sailor bellows he can see White Harbor, they are in the cabin, half-naked, still playing their game. He growls, swings his legs over the side of the bed and looks for his tunic while she gives a sigh. His bad feeling about their journey in the North never left him and he wants to take a look at the harbor before landing. She hurries herself as soon as she understands he's anxious and follows him on the deck, tightly wrapped in her brown cloak, unsteady on her feet because of the swell. At the same time as he offers her his arm, he catches the sly look of a sailor-boy: the only woman on board always draws attention on her. She stays close to him and they watch the coast; meanwhile, the crew bustle about shouting and cursing before _Brave Borcas's_ arrival in the harbor. The Bite's pale green waters seem cold under the North wind; it's a rough weather with frothy manes on top of the waves. Stoically, she observed the landscape and the white buildings of the city. She's coming home, in a way, and he sees her wiping a tear on her cheek. Is she filled with emotion or is it the cold wind that makes her cry? He can't say. No matter how much time he spent with her: sometimes her behavior is like the riddles of his childhood, beyond understanding and poetic.

There are war galleys in the inner harbor; perhaps two dozens. He frowns, wondering why Lord Manderly would gather so many vessels. After a while, he turns to his left and notices a small boat. He never gave a damn to the different types of boat, but this one is probably used for coastal navigation. In spite of its ordinary appearance, there are banners flying in the blasts of wind. On the gray fabric, he can see two blue towers united by a bridge. _Seven buggering hells. House Frey._

* * *

**Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this chapter, please review!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

They are not welcome in this place; neither the sailors and the harlots who look hard at them in the inner harbor nor the smallfolk walking in the straight cobbled streets bathed in the morning sun seem to care for a young girl and his huge and ugly companion. The massive form of the Wolf's Den is as ominous as the square keep of House Cox in Saltpans. Even the cold wind tells them to go to hell.

He nevertheless finds a room in a tavern and they sit side by side on the edge of the bed, appalled by the news. The owner confirmed that envoys of House Frey arrived a day or two before with the remains of Lord Manderly's son. The man died at the Red Wedding and those who bring back his bones with affected manners and compassionate looks are either his murderers or their accomplices. _How ironic._ The Red Wedding took away her mother and brother and now they are trapped by its consequences. Even a seasoned warrior like her great-uncle, besieged by the Lannisters, faces the result of Lord Frey's betrayal. Wyman Manderly has to make a choice: openly rebel against the boy king and risk his family's life or bend the knee. _Seems that Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse chose a few more years of blowout and bender over his pride, or else the Freys' bloody corpses would float on the cold waters of the Bite. Manderly's oaths don't last as long as his suppers._ Downhearted and unable to talk, she's looking sadly at the grayish wooden floor while he broods over Lord Manderly's treason.

"I made a terrible mistake," she points out. "I lead you in this awful place, I-"

Instead of trying to comfort her with words, he takes her in his arms and cradles her.

"You should be angry at me," she says softly.

Since she buries her face in his neck, her warm breath tickles his skin and this sensation drives him mad. It's something he noticed aboard _Brave Borcas_; every time one of them is frustrated or sad, their kisses seem the only way to get over it. Her warmth in this gloomy, freezing place is soon the only thing that matters. Holding her tight is not enough so his hands knead her back, her waist, her small breasts, as if doing this could warm him up. He kisses her eagerly in spite of the usual pain on his burnt cheek. His skin – or rather the amount of scars taking the place of his skin – feels tight. Instead of remaining passive, she squirms, runs a hand down his back, under his tunic, then helps him remove it. Despite the cold, it's easier to touch her or to enjoy how she touches him without the damn woolen fabric. _Way too easy_, he thinks bitterly as she leans back and draws him closer. He's almost lying on top of her, now.

That night, when he startled the poor little thing she was after the Battle of the Blackwater, he could have done this against her will. He could have behaved like a roughneck and done what he died for during months. What prevented him from raping her, after the battle? His loyalty towards his king made him restrain himself _before_, but at that time, he had already deserted and told the Imp to fuck off. The _Mother song_ she sang had nothing to do with it either: a pious hymn never stopped a godless man from having a woman, especially if the singer is young and pretty. Then why did he feel satisfied that night once the song was over? He remembers a metallic taste in his mouth, the taste of his own blood when he had bit his tongue at the sight of the wildfire. Perhaps the guilt overcoming him that night had the same taste; he wasn't supposed to be there, nor to talk to her, even less to lean over her. Did he feel relieved when he left her room? If the foolish girl she was had decided to run away with him, he could have hurt her. He _would_ have hurt her, it was a question of time. Thus, when he stripped his white cloak and left, he knew somehow that, if the girl wasn't safe – she couldn't be, as long as there were Lannisters in the Red Keep – the danger wouldn't come from him. A strange kind of solace, really.

_What are you doing, Dog?_ He's struggling with her laces, his head pounding as the need seems more and more obvious. When playing their game on the boat, he managed to focus on her sensations, on what he saw on her face or heard from her and that prevented him from listening to his own instinct, but he can't do that now. _What in Seven Hells are you doing? _Lust blinds him, turns him into the rabid dog he tries to leave behind. He made her a promise a few days ago and he wishes to keep it. It's not the one who hurt him so much, but the other one: he wants a true wedding night if they can't have the feast she deserves. _I can give her that._ When he suddenly stops, she's panting and her throat is red; she freezes, trying to understand what she did wrong. Her blue eyes are shining with surprise and disbelief. She sits up, blushing, a puzzled look on her face as soon as he gets on his feet and pulls on his tunic.

"I'm sorry, love, I can't do that," he rasps, trying to ignore the discomfort in his breeches.

"Did I hurt you? What- Where are you going to?"

Unable to explain his behavior in spite of her begging tone, he picks up the cloak fallen on the floor, his bastard sword and slams the door. As he rushes down the stairs, he doesn't feel the relief he expected. He's seething with anger and would like to fight or to kill someone. _So this is it? Having her or stabbing a man, shedding her blood or someone else's. Lust or blood lust._ Each furious step draws him closer from the outside door of the tavern and the streets of this damn white city on the eastern shore of the river. One could say that White Harbor is as white as a pile of filthy sheets forgotten by some careless girl by a washing-place. The color in itself offends him in the midday sun and makes him blink. There's something unpleasant in all these white buildings overlooking cobbled streets. The damn place is cleaner than King's Landing or Lannisport or every other city he visited. _A city shouldn't be that clean and ordered._ Men stare at him as he walks briskly, his face half hidden by his hood. He doesn't know where his long strides take him so he clings to the promise he made her: wait until their wedding night. She whispered in his ear she didn't care a dozen times while they were kissing, but it's a matter of principle. The man he once was couldn't keep his word and despised oaths. Breaking his promise would have made him laugh. It's over, though; he's not that man anymore.

He soon arrives in a cobbled square with a big fountain. A huge pot-bellied merman with carved scales on his tail rises from the fountain waters. _Must be the Fishfoot Yard._ In this white city, the stone statue looks like a sloven with the greenish lichen growing on his beard and his broken trident. In the shadow of the big merman and despite the cold wind, reckless children splash about in the fountain, while a cluster of women chat. In each corner of the square, walking by small shops, there are groups of sailors; some come back from a nearby brothel, others hesitate and argue. The white city's inhabitants seem to live their life without thinking of the war. _They're just trying to survive. Who can blame those people? That said, there's nothing for us, here._

As the sight of kids playing in the fountain captivates him, he realizes his throat is dry and decides to find a place where he can quench his thirst. Among the different streets leading to the square, he chooses the most crowded with sailors and looks for an ale-house. Some old reflex makes him stop when he hears the customers' hearty laughs and he walks inside a dark and noisy tavern. Perhaps the time spent here and a few emptied pitchers will give him comfort and peace before he goes back to her. She's probably anxious, wondering where he is and when she'll see him again. _Poor love, I'm such a terrible husband for you. You thought you would marry some handsome and courteous knight but here we are. You're alone in a gloomy room while I'm trying to soothe my nerves in the traditional way: drinking._

He empties a pitcher of red wine with a bitter after-taste and orders another one to the lanky boy who serves the customers. Most of them are soldiers or sailors; two knights talk and boast of their skills by the door. There are shopkeepers too, who shyly sip their ale: the kind of creatures who lie low in places like this tavern, for fear of the knights' fury. The man sat next to his table keeps his eyes downcast, as if looking at the other people could cause his death. _That's how smallfolk behaves and what we should do if we go back to the Thistle. When we go back to the Thistle, I should say. Ella's inn is our only safe place._ The cheap red wine makes his tongue furred and he soon feels numb, nearly indifferent to the customers' conversation and laughter. His lips twitch in a half-smile: that's exactly what he was looking for and now he can go back to her. He'll probably sleep for a while then try to convince her that the Thistle is safer than any other place until the war is over. He tosses a few coins on the table, draws back his chair with a creaking noise and stands up. The two knights sat by the door stare at him insolently but he chooses to ignore them. _Let's do what smallfolk would do. We'll soon leave the peacocks and go back to the poultry yard._

"Hey!" one of the knights shouts. "You're already leaving?"

He shrugs and raises his hood.

"I'm talking to you! Where are you from?" the man insists.

He freezes. Is it a trap? Is the knight in his cups and looking for some company or does he recognize him? He meets a shopkeeper's anxious eyes and hesitates. As the knights get on their feet and walk towards him, the owner, a greybeard with a red nose sweats with fear.

"I don't want no trouble, Sers... Please!" he begs.

"Oh, shut your mouth, you big piece of shit," the second knight says.

"It doesn't matter, Jared. Let's go outside then," the first one suggests.

A contemptuous smile on his face, the first knight points at the door. His right hand reflexively touches the hilt of his sword as he leaves the tavern. Perhaps he can still avoid this and go back now. He clenches his jaw, determined not to give way to blood lust. _If I kill those men, staying in this damn city will be complicated and leaving it even worse. _

"Who are you?" the first one asks. He's got a silky beard covering the lower half of his weasel face.

_Seven Hells, there are dozens of taverns in this harbor and I just ran into the Freys. _He doesn't answer and sees the second knight, the one called Jared positioning himself on his right side, while the weasel face is on his left. This way, they make sure he can't run away without unsheathing his sword.

"I'm nobody. Just a man on his way home," he rasps.

"Where is your home, then?" Jared Frey asks. "I'm sure we already met somewhere. Don't you think so, Rhaegar?"

"I would say King's Landing. Our friend reminds me of a regular visitor of the Red Keep. Or at least he _was_ a regular visitor of the Red Keep. Before his desertion."

He gives a saturnine laugh, making the Freys' cruel eyes narrow.

"As if vermin frequented the capital," he rasps. "I thought the likes of you sheltered themselves in their fucking castle, standing in the way of people going North, preparing tricks... violating the laws of hospitality."

He spits.

"Perhaps we didn't spend much time in King's Landing all those years, but many things already changed in the Seven Kingdoms," points out Rhaegar Frey. "The last events changed everything for House Frey. The Lannisters respect us. House Frey is now in charge in the Riverlands, with the King's blessing. By the way, Tywin Lannister sends his best regards."

The weasel face draws his sword, giving him no other choice than doing the same.

"What are you fucking doing in White Harbor, Dog?" Jared Frey asks.

Do they know? He can't risk her life. He grunts and almost bares his teeth when Rhaegar Frey timidly waves his sword. His kinsman unsheathes his blade and tries to threaten him as well. A poor threat, in fact.

"Two at a time, huh?" he mocks. "Not enough guts for single combat. Like I said, you're vermin."

"What are you doing here, Dog?" Jared Frey insists.

He ignores his question and strings swift blows together: forced to step backwards, Rhaegar hits the façade of another ale-house across the street. Loosing his sword and falling on all fours, he curses while Jared comes closer. There are men and even children looking at them now. The sight of three men drawing their swords in the streets isn't usual in White Harbor, even if his two enemies are more clumsy with a blade than him with Sansa's comb.

"A child of ten would be a worthy opponent, compared to you," he rasps as Jared retreats.

_But does he retreat or does he lead me towards some trap? It's too easy... _Despite the smallfolk's encouragement – people apparently don't like the Freys – he has a bad feeling.

"No!" a street child suddenly shouts.

He turns around just in time to see Rhaegar trying to stab him. Without the boy's warning, the weasel face would have stabbed his back with a dagger he probably kept in his boot. Despite his quick reaction, Rhaegar manages to hit his forearm. The pain infuriates him and his enemy is now too close to avoid his bastard sword. He disarms him, granting Rhaegar's hand with a long gash, and grabs him by the hair before turning around to face Jared. Some boys watching their fight whistle with admiration. He presses his blade against Rhaegar's throat, so that his prisoner squeaks like a rat. In front of him, Jared tries to catch his breath and tightens the grip on his sword without conviction. Fear distorts his face when he sees his kinsman threatened to death.

"Leave me be," he commands to Jared, "and your fucking brother or cousin or whatever he is will live."

Jared hesitates: if Rhaegar dies, his family will blame him, but both want to succeed to Lord Walder Frey. Each dead Frey means another chance to inherit for those who survive. He can read all these thoughts on Jared's face and for a few heartbeats he can't say what his opponent will do. Jared finally pounces on him, sword in hand. He has no other choice than pushing a mad Rhaegar in his kinsman's arms. As a result of the confusion, both Freys fall on the cobbled ground and yell so loud one probably injured himself on Jared's sword. As for him, he runs away and the men who watch the fight spontaneously step aside to let him go. The sun is already fading as he hurries in the streets of the harbor. His thoughts come back to her. _Let's hope that she's still in the room, waiting for me. Let's hope that my fucking bad manners didn't spoil everything between us._

Out of breath, he reaches the tavern where they stopped. He rushes upstairs and knocks at the door. The creaking of the opening bolt seems the sweetest sound he ever heard and suddenly she's here in the late afternoon sun. She's relieved to see him but she tries to hide it behind an angry façade; she lets him in all the same and closes the door.

"I'm sorry, love, I needed-"

Without any warning, she slaps him. Such a gesture would have incensed him, a long time ago, and she knows it. But she also knows he's a different man; that's why she stares at him, perfectly still. Something abruptly changes in her gaze and she steps forwards. She lowers her eyes for a second, then wraps her arms around his neck.

"Never leave me again," she whispers.

His need for her is coming back but he feels like he can deal with it. When his lips meet hers, she winces because his breath smells of wine but immediately kisses him back.

"Never thought a high-born girl could appreciate cheap wine," he teases.

"I appreciate your kisses, not cheap wine."

"_Appreciate_, really?"

"All right, I love your kisses. I love our game."

Her tone is enticing and she looks at him with begging eyes and leans against his injured arm, so that he can't help cursing.

"What- What happened to your arm?" she asks, discovering blood on his sleeve.

"I met the Freys and we fought. We should forget about meeting Lord Manderly and go back to the Riverlands. To the Thistle. We'll go back in the North later, when war is over."

* * *

She agreed on leaving their room and waiting for a ship sailing to Saltpans in the harbor. Hiding the horses proved more difficult; before heading out, he negotiated with the owner and asked him to keep the horses in exchange for a few dragons. The owner fleeced him but he couldn't think of leaving Stranger behind and the Freys were already looking for him in the city. They stayed hidden in a ship, then in a warehouse while the horses were taken care of near the tavern. Two days after their arrival in White Harbor, they eventually went aboard a galley to Saltpans. A large amount of money allowed them to take the captain's cabin, but he didn't care: they were going back to the Thistle and nothing else mattered. They were both exhausted on the morning of their departure and fell asleep on the uncomfortable bed where they were cramped for room.

He wakes up from a dreamless sleep and finds her staring at him. She brushes the bridge of his nose and his lips.

"What are you dreaming of?" he asks.

"I'm not dreaming. Do you notice we're not the only passengers on this boat, though this galley is built for trade? There are three merchants, a family and even a septon. I saw them while you were bargaining with the captain. A septon, Sandor, you know what it means?"

She shifts and leans on her elbow.

"The captain said there's a storm coming," he points out. "Maybe we should wait and marry once in the Riverlands."

"If a storm is rising, I'd rather marry you now. I want to die as a married woman."

"You're already married and we're not going to die," he whispers.

"In White Harbor, if the Freys had found us, you would have kept your promise?"

_That_ promise? Her question is like a slap in his face.

"Why are you obsessed with death, little girl? Sometimes, you sound like you want to die."

"I'm not scared by death. How can I be afraid since death means reunion with my parents and my brothers? Maybe I'll meet you sister too."

Swell pushes her in his arms; he nevertheless feels distraught. Her indifference towards death makes him uncomfortable. He knew she didn't care to die, though; a long time ago, he prevented her from leaping into the void with Joffrey when the new king had shown her her father's head.

"Go find the septon," she says, kissing him. "When big waves unfold, threatening to split the ship in two, I'll be lying in your arms."

* * *

The furs warming them smell of sweat and filth; the captain should air out those heavy pelts from time to time. _Later on, when the wind is dying down._ He smiles, remembering the captain's reaction when he asked for the septon. The details of their wedding are vague though, as if the overflow of emotion blur his memory. A violent wave suddenly shakes the galley as the wind howls and someone shouts on the upper deck; none of this seem to disturb her sleep. Her head is resting on his chest and she holds him tight. _My wife._

Two hours earlier, he locked eyes with her and they exchanged their vows in the stinky cabin. Her blue dress brought out her pale complexion and her auburn hair. The storm was already on them and the poor septon seemed unsteady on his feet but nobody cared for the godly man's well-being. All of a sudden, the septon mumbled something and left them. Despite the damn swell and the bloody gusts of wind disrupting the boat, she insisted on eating something, sat on the edge of the bed and nibbled some brown bread.

"You're not hungry?" she asked, astonished by his unusual lack of appetite.

He shook his head and kept looking at her as she finished her meal. He finally took a sip of red wine and offered her some. However, her confidence had disappeared when she huddled against him: their wedding night suddenly frightened her. For a heartbeat, she was about to claim his lips then gave up.

"Are you afraid?" he rasped.

She raised her head and nodded.

"No matter how afraid you are, girl. You can't be as scared as me."

**Thank you for the comments I received lately – special thanks to the guests! If you like this chapter, please review...  
**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

The red tide again. Purple and vermilion, blood fills her skirts and soon reaches her knees. A constriction in his chest, he waves his hands but can't do anything to stop this. _There's no way out._

He wakes up with a start and finds her lying next to him under his cloak. In the sullen woods of the Riverlands, they sheltered themselves in a sort of cave. It's not even the hour of the wolf and he can't see anything. He sits up, his head resting in his hands, and tries to catch his breath. He thought he got rid of his fucking nightmare the day he decided to marry her, but he was wrong. She stretches herself out, then takes him in her arms.

"It's over," she whispers. "I'm here, Sandor."

She doesn't ask what his dream was about; she knows he won't tell her. Nightmares are probably the only kind of things they keep for themselves: she didn't say anything about the bad dream she has once in a while. He agrees to this silence. After all, telling the truth could only upset her. _And we're close to the Thistle now. We'll reach the inn before sunset. We'll be safe._

"It's over," she repeats. "Go back to sleep now."

Her gesture belies her word, though: she struggles with his laces, drawing him close to her. If it wasn't pitch-black, he would probably see her elated smile as he gives in and leans over her, taking a sharp intake of breath in anticipation. These moments bring back together the different sides of his personality: the green boy, still afraid to hurt or deceive her; the Hound unable to restrain his desire; the one he became in the woods, a man with no illusions left yet eager for her affection. She rails at the lack of comfort on the hard soil of the cave but tonight, they'll have a decent bed.

* * *

In the fading sun, the timber frame house supported by dark beams seems ready to collapse under its own weight. _Just like the first time._ Behind him, she gives a sigh of relief when she finally sees the painted thistle on the wooden sign swaying on the wattle and daub walls of the facade. The now familiar sight brings a twisted smile on his lips. _We'll be fine here._ They go around the inn and find Symon hurrying from the stables, just like he does for every customer. When the lad recognizes them, he freezes, then walks towards them.

"Glad you're back, m'lord," the boy says, uncomfortable.

"I'm not a lord," he rasps, jumping from his saddle and running his fingers through Stranger's mane. _And you're not glad._

"My sister will be so happy!"

At least, this sounds sincere. Symon peers at her then at him, while taking the reins and leading their horses to the stables. They make their way through the holes and puddles of the backyard and reach the backdoor. The place isn't crowded like the first time and they see Ella serving ale to a bunch of peasants. From where she is, the blond girl can't see them and for a few moments, they watch her in her daily routine. She keeps the mask of self-confidence and cheerfulness she already had before her father died, laughing with her customers. When she suddenly turns around, she gasps in surprise and nearly drops the empty pitcher she just took from a table.

"On your left," she says in a broken voice. "We'll be alone."

He pushes a creaking door leading to the place where she lives, a small room with one narrow hay mattress. Symon must sleep somewhere else, maybe in the stables. Ella looks at them, fighting back tears, hesitates, then hugs him. He feels awkward; blond girls were never fond of him. The only woman who dared to hold him in her arms is standing next to him, a puzzled look on her face. He nevertheless pats Ella's shoulder. She breaks with him only to embrace Sansa.

"I was sure you would come back," Ella whispers. "So you're safe. Nothing bad happened to you. I kept praying, you know."

They look at each other; so many things occurred since they left the Thistle their return looks like a miracle.

"We are married now," she tells Ella, her cheeks suddenly red.

Is their wedding the first thing that comes to her mind when she thinks about the past two weeks or does she feel the need to let Ella know because she's a bit jealous? _I'll have to reassure my wife and __remind her that dogs are faithful._ Ella grins and congratulates them before leading them upstairs, to the room they already slept in.

"Come with me," Ella tells him. "I suppose you prefer to dine here, so you'll bring back the food while I'll fetch some hot water if one of you wants to take a bath."

They leave Sansa in the room and as soon as he shuts the door she can't resist to tease him.

"So you finally did it," Ella whispers, trying not to laugh. "I'm so proud of you!"

He doesn't know what he prefers: the genuine smile on her freckled face and her giggle in the staircase.

* * *

Once the last customers gone to bed, their need to talk gathers the four of them on the ground floor. Symon doesn't stay, though; his sister quickly sends him away and he drags his feet towards the stables.

"What news from the capital?" Sansa asks.

"Some say the Imp escaped after his trial by combat," Ella answers. "The Queen's men are after him, but they didn't find him so far."

Sansa's reaction isn't long in coming; she suppresses a shudder then reaches out and squeezes his hand. In the flickering light of the burning down candles, what he sees in her eyes looks like concern for her former husband.

"The Queen's men?" he repeats. "What about Tywin Lannister?"

"Dead. The Imp killed him before scurrying off, most likely."

He swallows hard. He blames Tywin Lannister for many things, yet it's odd to hear someone you once considered as a sort of father died. _A father who sent me to my first battle and made me kill people without questioning._ Forgetting her own surprise and solicitude for Tyrion, she tightens her grip on his hand.

"There's something else you need to know," Ella adds, avoiding his gaze. "That's why I didn't want Symon to stay with us. The less he knows..."

She pauses then leans forward.

"The Imp couldn't fight to prove his innocence and some dornish prince offered to fight for him. The Queen had to make sure the Southerner couldn't win... She chose the Mountain."

"So what? Gregor Clegane crushed the Dornishman's skull?" he says. The feigned detachment in his voice doesn't convince them, but he couldn't care less.

"They're both dead. I'm sorry, I didn't know how to tell you-"

He curses, unable to realize what she said and gets on his feet so briskly they're startled.

"How?" he rasps, pacing up and down. "It can't be true..."

"A merchant told Symon the Mountain was wounded and laid out, but the dornish prince wanted him to confess his crimes before finishing him off... The Mountain crushed his skull. Just like you said."

"So he's alive..."

"No, he's not," she explains patiently. "The prince's spear was poisoned. Your- The Mountain died slowly. I'm not a liar, you can trust me."

He shakes his head.

"Can't be true. If he was dead, I would know it."

The two young women staring at him look so concerned and appalled by his disbelief they make him feel terrible. His brother's death should relieve him, because he once prayed for it. _The Gods didn't fucking hear me at that time, why would they now?_ There's something else, growing inside him now, a combination of anger and frustration. He thought he was done with wrath and he doesn't want to upset them, so he does his best to regain his composure.

"We'll begin to work here tomorrow, Ella. You'll tell her how she can help in the kitchens. I'll be in the stables. I know what I have to do."

Cursing silently this time, he goes upstairs, Sansa coming on his heels. Once in their room, he feels like he can't breathe and opens the window, despite the cold. Everything is quiet outside; there are only night birds calling each other and chasing. Neither the heavenly vault nor the rustle of feathers under the trees can soothe his nerves, though. _Gregor is dead. He died by someone else's hand._

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head; he needs her more than ever now. All of a sudden, he turns around to face her.

"I would know if he was dead. I know it's fucking weird, but I would know it."

None of them thought to bring a candle from downstairs; only the moon lights up her features and she looks like a pale blue vision. She closes her eyes for a second, then stares at him. _There's something else you don't tell me_, she seems ready to say.

"I- I had the right to kill Gregor," he admits. "For all his cruelties. Not only towards me, because I'm the lucky one. He killed my father and my sister; my mother died of grief. He brought shame on our family. At twelve, I was an orphan, I had no one to rely on but I believed I was still alive so that I could kill him someday. I grew up clutching to this idea. The dornish prince sought revenge, too. But I had more rights than him."

She takes him in her arms, slowly leading him to their bed.

"It's over," she whispers. "You may be right about your brother, but it doesn't change anything. Gregor is either dead or hiding somewhere, which means he won't come for us. It's the only thing that matters."

* * *

He spends the next day with the horses, while she begins to work in the kitchens, with the fat cook he once mistook for the innkeeper. _Two peacocks hiding in the poultry yard. _Customers come and go, ignoring the huge and silent man staying in the half-light of the stables. One merchant asks him if the big black horse in the last stall is for sale and that's when he realizes how difficult it is to remain unnoticed with Stranger. Even if the weeks wandering in the Riverlands and in the Vale tired him, even if the lack of food made him the shadow of the battle steed he was in the king's stables, nobody can believe Stranger is a workhorse. _I must hide him to protect us and protect Stranger himself._ During the afternoon, he looks for a place where the stallion won't draw attention on him. The inn is so close to the woods the ruins of an old barn adjoining disappear in the undergrowth, but there's no roof so he can't conceal Stranger here. After a while, he sees a small building nearby. The walls covered by ivy and creepers are almost invisible from the inn. There's a creaking door, the roof is in a bad shape but the place can serve as a pen: it might have been a pigsty, years ago. Despite Stranger's lack of enthusiasm, he leads him to his new shelter, where the horse's head nearly touch the ceiling and he shuts the door.

At dusk, he only comes back in to hear Sansa arguing with the fat cook.

"Do it yourself!" she hisses. She leaves the kitchens, frowning and glaring, then goes in the backyard where he follows her. Not a single hair comes out of the scarf covering her auburn hair.

"He wanted me to scrub the floor where there was some soup," she tells him. "I'm sure he spilled it on purpose, to humiliate me."

She stops, sighs heavily and meets his eyes.

"I know what you think. You think I'm a spoiled child, some high-born girl unable to work as a kitchen maid... But I tried, Sandor, really. And I'll try again. But he had to know I'm not his slave."

Her furious little face would make him laugh if their safety wasn't at stake. He leads her back to the kitchens and calls the fat cook, making him jump and roll his eyes with terror.

"What's your name, again?" he rasps.

"Lucas... My name's Lucas, but my friends call me Lard."

_I wonder why._ Lard's small eyes wander on the walls of the kitchens, avoiding him. The fat man probably doesn't know what he can call him. He steps forward, staring at the frightened cook.

"I help Symon in the stables," he adds, towering over Lard. "Which means I'm not far from the kitchens. Treat her right and we'll be good friends. But if you want to argue with my wife, I'll take care of you. If you shout at my wife, I'll take care of you. Understood? Now go back to work."

Turning slightly, he sees her triumphant smile.

"Go back to work," he repeated. "Both of you."

* * *

Though she always manages to wear her mask of cheerfulness, he can read anxiety on Ella's face. After two days spent in the stables, he knows something has changed about Symon. It's not only the boy's distrust towards him. Small details put him on the trail, like the boy's absences and the distracted expression on his face when he thinks no one looks at him. His sister's worried gaze has something to do with it. She furiously scrubs a table as if she could remove the dark stains left by wine and restore what years of bender have done. Ignoring the few customers sipping their ale, he stops in front of her.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says calmly. "Stop devastating the table, please."

Ella simpers and sighs. "Outside," she finally answers.

"Things got weird once Sansa and you left," she explains, arms crossed in a self-protective gesture. "I don't know if it's our father's death or- or what happened to me. Must be disturbing, I suppose, for a boy. The thing is, our father took care of us and I never needed to give Symon orders. I'm not used to it. That's why I was so happy when you came back. Being the only man of the house is no good for him."

With the sole of her worn-out boots, she draws semi-circles in the dust of the backyard. She looks like a stubborn little girl, eyes downcast and brows furrowed.

"He's seeing that girl in the Oak Grove," she adds.

"What is the Oak Grove?"

"A hamlet built around a mill, nearby. She's the miller's daughter. She turned his head. Now, he wants to leave the Thistle and marry her. Seven save us, he's four-and-ten. What am I to do without him?"

On the verge of tears, she clenches her fists to pull herself together.

"You want me to talk to him?" he asks.

"Would you do that for me?" Her begging tone reveals how vulnerable she is.

"I'll talk to him."

She shyly puts her hand on his, as a token of gratitude. Many years ago, his sister died, leaving a void in his heart. But when he looks at Ella's poor smile, he could easily believe that life gives him another sister to take care of.

* * *

"What did you do to me?" she asks, wrapping herself in the sheets and panting.

His own breath is erratic and he lies flat on the back, arms folded under his head. Her offended tone is so fun he can't help but laughing. A harsh sound escapes his ruined lips and echoes in the dark room, provoking their neighbor's furious knock on the wall along with swearwords.

"Actually, it was you who did this to me," he rasps. "And you seemed to like it. Who could have thought Eddard Stark's daughter would like-"

A pillow thrown to his face shuts him up. He laughs again and ignores the man cursing on the other side of the wall. The dim light provided by their only candle shows her thin form sitting up in the bed, a confused look on her face.

"I'll soon be with child," she says.

"You think it's too early? I'm sure Ella knows how to get you some moon tea."

"That's not what I'm asking for!" she answers briskly. "I want children, but I'm scared, I can't deny it."

As she sighs heavily, he reaches out and lifts her so that she lies half across him.

"I want children," she says stubbornly. "It means so many changes but I do want children. It will be fine, as long as you stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," she sighs, her head resting on his chest as if it was a pillow.

"You'll sleep later, girl. I'm not done with you."

A wolfish smile on his face, he shifts and sits up before pinning her to the bed. Nor her fake indignation nor their neighbor swearing at them can stop him now.

* * *

If someone had told him he would have to talk to a boy of fourteen in a fatherly tone, he would have laughed, but after all, he saw strangest things. He lectured Symon and insisted on the boy's duties towards his sister. He asked him how serious was his relationship with the miller's daughter and tried to keep a straight face when Symon swore he didn't touch the girl.

"Sansa is my age," the boy protested in a challenging tone. "She's already married."

"You're wrong. She's older. And smarter than you, as well."

Symon shrugged and pulled a face.

"Now that you're here to take care of the horses, why should I stay?" he asks angrily.

"I don't want to take your place, if that's what you mean! I got revenge for your father's death and your sister offered us to stay, that's all! Our safety depends on your ability to shut this little mouth of yours. Not only my wife's safety or mine, but your sister's as well. Don't be selfish. Someday, your sister will let you decide where you want to live, but right now, she fucking needs you."

"Someday," repeated Symon, eyes shining with exasperation and disbelief.

Now that he's patting Stranger's neck, the boy's angry expression makes him smile. He takes the reins and leads his horse outside of the pen, toward the meadow. They have to be careful, because of the darkness, because of the creaking branches and holes on the way to the field. It became a ritual between them since he hid his old companion and his saddle in the pigsty; at dusk, when his presence is no more necessary in the stables, he visits Stranger and allows him to canter for a while. Somebody could see them but his horse needs fresh air and exercise. _Such a pity you're fastened in this awful place_, he thinks bitterly as the stallion snorts and whinnies in approval. _Should we stay for a while, I would demolish your pen to build something bigger._

* * *

On the first hours of the day, everything is quiet about the Thistle. He wakes up at dawn, but as Symon sleeps in the stables, the boy is supposed to take care of the horses if some customer wants to leave early. Instead of facing the bone-numbing cold, he stays in bed and watches her curled under the rough blanket, until his memories of the evening before come back.

Once more, Ella was dead-worried and Sansa asked her why, after the last customers were gone. The blond girl explained her brother was nowhere to be found. Sometimes, he wondered if Ella wasn't overreacting when it came to Symon but after all, she had no other family. It soon became clear nobody had seen him since the mid-afternoon, when he had disappeared as usual to pay a visit to the miller's daughter. Lard finally said the boy wanted to spend the night out there and Ella went mad. But it was late and a walk to the Oak Grove seemed ridiculous. He tried to calm her down, reminding her that staying out all night was some foolish thing all boys plan to do, but she wouldn't understand.

Perhaps he should get up and see if Symon's back. If not, he should check on the horses. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, gets on his feet and puts on his breeches. A faint moan escaping from the blankets makes him turn around.

"It's too early, Sandor. Go back to sleep."

"I don't know if our young seducer came home," he explains, grabbing his tunic. "I've got to go to the stables. You should probably get dressed and see if Ella needs some help. I'm quite sure she didn't sleep."

She sighs and obeys. For once, she stands up naked and brushes his side when picking up her clothes, probably expecting this sight would make him change his mind, but before she can put on her dress, the sound of hooves on the uneven ground of the backyard startles him.

"Who can come here so early in the morning?" she asks.

He hurries himself to the window and sees a dozen horsemen in the yard, some of them dismounting. The group divides itself in two; those who jumped from their saddle walk toward the stables and the others stop their horses in front of the backdoor. Among those men, he notices a blond boy riding double, violently pushed to the ground. _They're after us._

"We can't stay here," he rasps, taking his weapons and the purse he kept under the bed. "Quick now."

She follows him without questioning and he opens the door. Before he can decide who are those men, the shouting downstairs makes him freeze. Ella's trying to stop the men, not to come in through the backdoor, but through the main entrance. _Trapped, like rats in a cage._

"In the name of Lord Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, open the door!" a man yells.

Still on the threshold, she turns to him, clutching to the hilt of his dagger and pointing the blade on her chest.

"I said 'no surrender'," she tells him bluntly. "You know what you have to do."

* * *

**OK, I did it. Some of you may be angry, or hate me. Well, you can. But don't say I didn't warn you in the summary. Throughout the story, there were hints of a possible sad ending. A happy ending didn't seem coherent with what happened before, so I tried to stay true to my vision of this fic – see this girl in the street with a T-shirt claiming "Happy endings suck"? It's me.**

**Sansa's words were supposed to be the last ones of this story. So you can read chapter 21 as an epilogue... or wait for chapter 22. I can't promise a fluffy chapter – I'm still wearing my "Happy endings suck" T-shirt – but... you'll see.**

**Thanks for the last reviews I received, especially to the guests, since I can't answer to their messages. As usual, any comments are welcome, because I'd really like to have your opinion on this... and if there are some angry reviews, they will be stoically tolerated.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Weeks ago, as I was still puzzled about the ending I could give to this story, a very wise person (Underthenorthernlights, I'm talking about you) gave me the answer. This epilogue is dedicated to her.**

**Rated M for violence and some situations.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

"I said 'no surrender'," she tells him bluntly. "You know what you have to do. We agreed on this."

Though her slender figure is shaking in her blue dress, she doesn't blink. The dagger she took from him presses on her bodice and she stares at him, waiting. She had the same determination when she challenged him on the second day of their journey. _But she didn't mean to die, at that time. At least, I thought she cared for life. _

"What are you waiting for?" she begs, when they both hear Littlefinger's men coming in despite Ella's protestations. "It's too late to run away. You made a promise!"

The prospect of killing her terrifies him, so he doesn't answer. Downstairs, Symon is yelling at the horsemen. From the threshold of their room, he can't see him but guesses the lad is trying to stop them before they reach the staircase.

"They're not here, I lied!" the boy cries out. "You can't go upstairs!"

Some customers, startled by the noise, get out of their rooms. He pushes her inside, shuts the door and leans back on it, while Symon keeps on resisting to Littlefinger's men. She immediately bangs at the wooden panels.

"Fuck off, you little shit!" a harsh voice shouts at Symon on the ground floor. A whistling sound warns him a man just drew his sword.

"Lord Baelish said you wouldn't harm them!" the boy replies. "No m'lord, you can't go upstairs-"

A shiver runs down his spine as _something_ thuds on the first steps; several men yell at the same time and one feminine voice is heard over them; a loud, shrill, barely human cry echoes the screams bursting his eardrums when he was caught up in the sack of King's Landing, many years ago. The endless shriek only stops to give way to a painful sobbing.

"Symon!" Ella calls. "Symon! Why?"

He opens the door he was leaning against and sees a frantic Sansa.

"What did they- What are you doing?" she asks, her blue eyes shining with disbelief. She unfolds her arms, ready to receive the stab supposed to unite their destinies. Something breaks inside her and she suddenly begins to weep. _It wasn't meant to happen this way._ He touches her cheek, briefly.

"Forgive me, my love. Forgive me and wait for me," he says before running to the window.

Littlefinger's men are already at the door, hammering and shouting ; the bolt can't resist for a long time. He clambers through the open window and soon reaches the roof. Some tiles slip under his feet as he hurries to the eave. From the open doors of the inn, he hears Ella's heart-rending cry.

In the backyard, men bellow at him, wondering what he's doing and where he goes. The only man who still was on horseback suddenly dismounts and he recognizes Baelish's thin figure clad in green.

"Stay close to the stables!" Littlefinger commands. "Don't let him escape!"

"What is he doing ?" an armored knight shouts. "Is this fool going to jump?"

Jumping from the roof is crazy: a twenty feet fall could only break his legs, but he has to find a way to the pigsty where he left Stranger. Behind him, men try to climb up the roof, gasping and cursing. He'll soon have no other choice than leaping into the void and trying to reach the nearest tree. The branches of the old oak can damp down his fall. He jumps and crashes against the trunk; as branches collapse under his weight, he feels a burning pain on his forehead and nose. The bark scratches his skin and once on the ground his ankle torments him but he doesn't have time for this.

"Ser Lothor, Ser Jon!" Littlefinger calls, a few yards behind him.

The knights must be on his heels, so he runs through the bushes, heading to the pigsty. His pursuers don't know where he's going, don't know the uneven ground either. One of them stumbles, falls flat on his face and curses loudly, before telling his companion to go on without him. Meanwhile, he reaches the pigsty, slams the door open and unties Stranger. No time to saddle his horse properly: he puts the saddle on Stranger's back and leads him outside.

"You're not going anywhere, Hound!" a brown-haired knight with shortish legs warns him, flinging himself on him.

He unsheathes his sword and easily disarms the knight, despite his sore ankle. As he climbs on Stranger's back, the second knight arrives limping along. Stranger rears up and kicks the man violently, but nearly throws his master off. He nevertheless manages to regain his balance and spurs the animal's flanks. In the same breath, he feels an excruciating pain in his thigh; reins in hand, he turns to his left and sees the first knight stabbing his leg. He boots his attacker to get rid of him and flees with Littlefinger's men in hot pursuit. Most of them run after him, wave their swords in vain, while some hurry to their mounts, but it's already too late. _Buggers, you could have come with bows or crossbows and stop me from fifty yards, but you're stuck in your fucking knightly habits and your ideas about how a man should die. You know nothing about warfare. _

Now he's deep in the woods surrounding the inn and holds on Stranger's neck as the horse quickly leaves behind their pursuers. Even if riding a horse with a saddle loosely fastened is perilous, he won't stop. He can't let them gain ground, can't either stay close from her: the idea of coming back to her would tempt him too much. Shaking his head he tries not to think of her and decides to focus on his flight instead. Dashing for a spot where they could hide, Stranger jumps over a stream but the ruggedness of the ground in this part of the Riverlands is the last thing a wounded man needs. Instinctively, he touches his thigh and winces in pain. Blood stains his fingers and soaks his breeches. _I've been injured before, this is nothing._ Frothing at the mouth, Stranger goes on at full gallop and takes him far from the Thistle. Far from her.

* * *

Every move seems painful now. Stranger and him barely stopped during the day and the first half of the night, forgetting to think and to eat – he doesn't have food anyway – until darkness and tiredness forced him to dismount. His ankle will be fine soon but his left leg is in a bad shape. A few inches above his knee, the knight made a deep cut into the muscle. It's not the blood he lost, but his inability to dress his wound which annoys him. He's got no wine to boil so that he can clean the injury, nobody to help him as he uses his knife to remove the dirt from his cut, nobody to calm him down or doze upon his shoulder. _No, I can't do that. I can't think of her now. I'm fucked up if I think of her. _

Leaning against a tree trunk and lit by a fire already dying away, he shuts his eyes tight. Physical pain is nothing compared to the void he suddenly feels. He can't indulge in weakness though; if he wants to escape the men Littlefinger probably send hot on his heels, he has to become again the man he was a few weeks ago. _The man? Or the Hound? I did something stupid the day I stole her from Baelish, for me and for her. Perhaps it's better this way. _He opens his eyes only to see more blood on his shaking hands. _It doesn't work._

In order to prevent Littlefinger's men to find him, if they had taken some dogs with them, he crossed the Green Fork. The muddy waters he stayed in for a while won't help. Taking a sharp intake of breath, he begins to remove his breeches. Every muscle aches as he does his best to get rid of the fabric caked with blood and mud. Wincing and cursing, he tries to clean the cut once again with his knife. _You're wasting your time, Dog._ All his efforts seem pathetic and he soon realizes how absurd he must look, breeches rolled on his boots, butchering the bloody hole in his thigh. _The sad reality of battle field, though there is no drums nor cavalry here. _His half-naked body, tired, useless and ludicrous could make him jeer. The kind of laugh, harsh and loud, he was used to before the battle of Blackwater, when there was no other way to put up with the farcical world surrounding him, or to tolerate his own misery. Maybe it's the first step in the process of becoming the Hound again.

* * *

He sees Littlefinger's men on the morning of the third day, and narrowly escapes them, hidden in a ditch full of mud. Fever brings him down and he can't sit properly on the saddle. Stranger carries him through the woods as if he was a bundle of dirty linen; he remembers he was heading to Saltpans but he's not completely sure and he's not able to lead the horse in whatever direction. Perhaps he should have surrendered to Littlefinger's men; if those bastards had a heart, they could have granted him with a quick death. Perhaps Littlefinger didn't even need to send his knights and sellswords on the roads of the Riverlands for him, after all. He's going to die because he has no food, no water and because his wound is infected. The damn cut on his thigh was oozing the last time he checked and he'd better not check too often if he doesn't want to go to pieces and weep like a babe. He gathered his strength after escaping Baelish's men and stopped in some tavern. He thought he could buy some wine and food – his purse was still heavy with gold – but it was all a blur and the customers seemed hostile; unsure he could fight if necessary, he chose to retreat. So he goes on, his stomach empty, swaying on his saddle.

When he was a child, he always imagined he would die sword in hand and that people would remember his skill and bravery – children always have fantasies of greatness – reality will be much more simple though: he'll snuff it in some muddy bank of the Trident and once he's dead, the first bugger who comes along will take his purse, his weapons and his horse. Somehow he's more concerned by Stranger's lot than by his own. A battle steed shouldn't end up pulling a cart like a workhorse, yet it becomes more and more likely.

He finally stops in the middle of the afternoon, too weak to go on. At first, he decides to let Stranger go, hoping his old companion would enjoy his newly gained freedom, then he changes his mind: sooner or later, his horse will have another master. It's unfair, but inevitable. He ties Stranger's reins to an oak, like he did so many times before, and collapses there, his back leaning against the trunk. In his fever dream, he doesn't even know where he is. There's water running on his right side and a big dwarf beech in front of him, that's all. He feels thirsty, but to drink, he would have to crawl and reach the bank. _Impossible._

He stares at the dwarf beech, instead. Its bare and twisted branches stand out against the pale blue sky and hang down. She would like this sight, the simple vision of an old tree, growing more in width than height. She would say trees are more beautiful in autumn or in winter, once they got rid of their leaves. At last, you can see the tree's shape, its flaws caused by storms when thunder hits the branches or, if bad weather spared it, its perfection. Neither wind nor men damaged this beech. A Northern girl would love this place, he's sure.

Now that he's going to die, he allows himself to think of her again. He finds solace in the idea that he resisted and didn't kill her. A long time ago, in a similar situation, he would have done it without the slightest hesitation: he used to draw his sword instinctively and if he couldn't keep something, he preferred to sacrifice it rather than watching someone else claim its ownership. _At least, I did one good thing: I let her live. I'd rather burn in hell than kill her. Littlefinger won't kill her, he'll use her name to rule both the Vale and the North. Hope he won't hurt her. Hope she won't hurt herself. _

As his thoughts wander, Ella's freckled face suddenly appears and guilt overwhelms him. He left a mourning friend alone in a big old house, somewhere by the Green Fork. Ella believed he could protect her and what happened? She first lost his father because of their presence, then her brother. No matter what part Symon played in Littlefinger's game, nobody deserves to die so young. Ella must blame him for Symon's death and this idea is unbearable. Nearly as unbearable as what Sansa now thinks of him.

He feels suddenly numb and the sight of the dwarf beech becomes blurred: he'll soon lose consciousness. _A senseless man in a senseless world._ Stranger snorts beside him, or is it a gust of wind? He clings on to his memories: he somehow betrayed her when he ran away, but what could he do? Perhaps she'll understand, later, when she's a bit older. When she realizes love doesn't imply a suicide pact.

He remembers the disbelief on her face when he came back in their room before his escape: the blue eyes shone and shone even more when she began to cry. Images churn around in his head and her confused look gives way to other visions: she's the girl he married and bedded while raging waters threatened to break their ship; the girl who gave a hard time to the Brotherhood but could burst into tears in front of a charred rabbit; the one who kissed him and blamed him for the murder of a bloody hawker on the same night.

His memory lingers on two fleeting moments: a few hours after he abducted her, as they were hiding at the top of a ruined tower, he suddenly got on his feet and banged into the frame. He saw her repressing a smile and felt stupid because the girl, beautiful as she was, made him forget his fucking height. At that instant, he was already lost even if he understood it later: he couldn't let her go. A long time ago, when he was a squire in Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister's younger brother Gerion told him unstoppable men were those who own nothing. That once you've got something to lose, you're weak. He survived a long time in the Crownlands and the Riverlands because he was alone and had nothing he really cared for. Stealing her from Baelish was like inheriting a hoard: he had something to lose and this choice caused his downfall. Yet he regrets nothing, except the consequences she will have to face alone.

The second memory he savors like a last gulp of wine is related to their first kiss. She was in a bad mood, that day – he had put her in a bad mood – and when they stopped in the middle of nowhere, she asked if he knew the way. His answer didn't pleased her though. "Can't you just pretend we're lost?" she said. It was childish. It was enticing, as well. He knew he couldn't resist for a long time and he didn't.

Even his memories can't prevent him from sinking into eternal sleep; keeping his eyes open is almost impossible now. He nevertheless sees something near the dwarf beech. A figure, walking toward him, but it's not her. _Bugger, as if she could come and hold you in her arms while you breathe your last breath..._ A bald man wearing a brown robe gets closer. _A thief: he'll steal my purse, my weapons and he'll take Stranger with him._ He's unable to fight though and shakes his head now resting on the ground. When he leans over his agonizing body, the man's hands don't seize the purse nor his sword. He touches his burning forehead and the voice escaping his lips is a whisper.

"You're wounded. I'll take good care of you."

* * *

Forced to stay in the large, beautiful bedroom with silk wall hangings of peach and cream-white and a massive four-poster bed, Sansa paces up and down. Since her arrival to the Eyrie, she has been shut in her new apartments and a maid told her Lord Baelish would come soon. She barely talked to him during their journey to the Vale, not only because she spent her time crying. He was mad at the thought of what she had done with Sandor: his eyes were glistening with anger when he briefly looked at their room, she could see it through her tears. And she kept screaming, saying she was Sandor's wife and they had no right to do this. Someone told her once Littlefinger loathed women shouting and crying. _Well, it's not idle gossip. He looked daggers at me._

She doesn't expect much of his visit; her only hope concerns Sandor. If Baelish's men found and killed him, he'll bring her some proof. He promised her he would do so and grinned. If he doesn't mention her husband, everything is possible. _Sandor said he would know if his brother was dead because he hated him so much, but maybe it's the same if you love someone._ She feels the void Sandor left in her heart, she worried sick but she doesn't feel like he's dead.

The door opens without any other warning that a key rattling in the keyhole and the Lord of Harrenhal comes in briskly. The slender man walks toward her and when he stops, she realizes she's slightly taller than him.

"The silly things you did are so numerous it would be impossible to list them," he snaps, "but I'm pleased to see you became more sensible since you're here."

_What did he think? That I intended to kill myself? If Sandor is alive and hiding somewhere, dying doesn't make any sense._ She stares at him coldly.

"How did you find us?" she asks.

He represses a smile: this is something she already noticed in King's Landing. _Littlefinger's unconcealed pride about his schemes._ He'll tell her all she wants to know.

"Remember Lord Varys, my dear? A wise man, really. I would say he inspires me; when I came here, I decided to hire "little birds" as he did in King's Landing. It costs a lot, you don't have the slightest idea, but it's a worthy investment."

He pauses and glances at her, disappointed not to find any trace of fear on her face. Only aversion.

"Clegane killed two of these little birds in the woods of the Riverlands, the two merchants, yes. Varys trusts beggars and handmaids, but I think it's important to hire spies coming from all ranks of our society. The merchants disappeared and their fate remained uncertain after their night spent at the Thistle, so my interest for this inn grew more and more, and my little birds whispered about strange events: the inn-keeper killed, a mysterious pair of customers including a beast of a man..."

He deliberately stresses these last words, scrutinizing her features.

"His name is Sandor," she says in a challenging tone.

Littlefinger chuckles and shakes his head for a second, then locks eyes with her again.

"I knew you spent time there, so I looked for the weak link and found this boy. The poor fool wanted to leave his house and see the world with the girl he loved. Westeros seems full of boys or even grown men who want to flee with their ladylove, these days. But that's not the point. He didn't know she was handsomely paid to laugh every time he joked around and paid to kiss him."

"The girl?" she asks in disbelief. "She's so young, she's a child-"

"Children are the best spies, if you think about it, my dear. Nobody pays attention to them, yet they see and hear everything. And what's more, they don't even understand how important are their revelations. They don't understand the consequences."

As he speaks unashamedly, she feels her head pounding. She didn't notice anything about Symon, nor did Sandor. Ella seemed anxious, but she trusted her brother. Sandor and her were cornered wherever they decided to go: the North wasn't safe but the Thistle was a trap meant to catch them even before they came back.

"I promised a purse of gold, swore I wouldn't harm you and the boy agreed. He told me all I needed to know. And so you're back. I kept my promise; I gave the dragons he should have received to his sister and I treated you well."

She wants to scream or slap him but it would only make things worse. She stares at him, instead. Her gaze seems to abash him and he points at her hair.

"You disappointed your aunt, you know," he adds, with a hint of conspicuous gallantry. "This hair-dying was her idea. But it's nothing compared to the other big mistake you made."

Tension suddenly fills the gorgeous bedroom with silk wall hangings and carved furniture. She knew this would come and she faces it, back straight and determination in her eyes.

"How many times did you lay with Clegane?"

She takes her time to answer and enjoys the anxiety showing on the surface of Baelish's features.

"More than you imagine, my lord. We are married."

At this instant, she doesn't blush like she used to do whenever she mentioned their wedding. She blames herself for many things, but certainly not for this. She juts out her chin. _How easy it is to have a stately demeanor when you're proud of yourself._

"When did you marry him?"

Littlefinger's question takes her unawares so she says bluntly: "It's been some fifteen days. Maybe more."

He smirks and claps his hands twice, like someone who calls a pet. The door opens and she sees a maid carrying a tray, with a tea-pot and a cup. The woman puts the tray on a console table before leaving the room.

"Good," he comments. "The heiress of the North can't bear children unless she marries a suitable man."

"What does it mean?" she asks, suddenly frightened, looking at the steaming tea-pot. "What do you intend to do?"

"I make sure you won't give birth to some- what? Puppy?"

On the verge of tears, she steps back, but he already pours some hot liquid in the cup.

"A woman told me once moon tea has a bitter aftertaste," he adds. "I never figure out if this beverage has an unpleasant taste or if she was referring to the act of losing an unborn child. What do you think?"

He holds out the cup and she takes it reluctantly. She looks at the moon tea for a while, then at him.

"What?" he barks, eyebrow raised.

She throws the hot liquid in his face and hears him shouting. For a few seconds she enjoys his cheeks turning red and his mortified look. Panting, he wipes his forehead and his pointed beard. He claps in his hands again and the same maid shows up.

"Go fetch Ser Jon. I may need his help if this young lady isn't more sensible."

The maid hurries herself in the corridor as he steps forward, glaring at her, and seizes the empty cup.

"I've been magnanimous so far," he starts. "I gave this poor girl the gold her brother deserved and that's how you repay my generosity? Do you want me to send some sellswords in the Riverlands? They'll finish what these two merchants began."

Appalled by his words, she fights back her tears and shakes her head. He gives her another cup.

"Drink now," he commands. "You'll drink this moon tea without spilling a drop."

The thought of what his men could do to Ella nauseates her, so she complies silently. She didn't think she could be with child so far; she just knew it would happen someday. The prospect both terrified and elated her. Now that she drinks the piping hot beverage, her wondering about children is nonsense.

"Good," he says, when the tea-pot is empty. "Of course, you wanted to rebel, but you know better than that. After all, you're my obedient daughter, _Alayne_."

Once he's gone, she sits on the edge of the bed. She won't bear Sandor's child and she's stuck here: the realization makes her weep silently, no matter how hard she tries to stay strong. Tears roll down her cheek as she suddenly gets on her feet. Across the room, down on her knees and, with relief, she finds in the elm chest the one and only relic she managed to keep. The maids got rid of the clothes she wore during the past weeks but they forgot the shawl he gave her. She takes it, unfolds the woolen fabric, wraps it around her shoulders and kneels down at the foot of the bed, her dress billowing as she drops to the floor. This way, the shawl covers her body. She buries her face in the fabric and enjoys the musky smell of Sandor's saddle bag, where she used to store it during their journey.

An old memory brings back a sad smile on her lips: months ago, as she was still an inexperienced girl attracted by the lights of King's Landing, like a moth to the flame, he offered her his protection and she refused. Afterward, she hid herself under the stained and tattered white cloak he left. How long she stayed there, smelling blood and sweat on the filthy fabric, she couldn't tell. _I feel exactly the same about this shawl_, she muses.

Her memories of that crazy night when the sky was filled with green hues lead her back to him. _What did I do? I was such a fool when I asked you to kill me. I thought it was the only way to stay with you and to show you how I care. I was completely wrong: what was supposed to prevent us from being separated widened the gap between us. And I let you face a terrible dilemma._

She broods on her conversation with Littlefinger, still crying. He said all this to crush her will: he wants her to become again the weak, easily swayed girl she was in the capital. _Let him think I can be that girl. Let's be quiet until I can take revenge for what he did._ While remembering every detail of their discussion, her mouth drops open mid-sob. Dumbfounded, she suddenly wipes her tears and tightens her grip on the smooth fabric of the shawl. Littlefinger said nothing about Sandor; it's been six days since he ran away from the Thistle and Baelish's men didn't find him. _He's alive, hiding somewhere. He'll find me again. Unless I find him first._

* * *

In the cave, tall candles cast their light on the walls covered by tapestries. At the bottom of the tapestries, carpets muffle the Elder Brother's footsteps; by places, one can't tell where the tapestry ends and where begins the carpet. The furniture disturbed him at first; as he was recovering after days of fever dream, the odd chest and table made with driftwood seemed straight out of a nightmare. However, all this is as real as the throbbing pain in his leg. He's lying on a narrow bed, a little cramped, as the bald man sits down on a driftwood chair and watches him. Earlier this day, the Elder Brother told him he would walk again but limp slightly. Knowing this, he started to talk, though he didn't mean to confide himself to a godly man. He didn't even know he had all these thoughts churning in his head, tormenting him. Now that he's silent, his throat is dry as if he hadn't been drinking in days. The Elder Brother unfolds his arms and rubs his red nose.

"Your brother is dead and she is alive," he says after a while. "Maybe the truth comes down to this."

The Brother looks so serene it's upsetting. He listened to him quietly as he was telling him what happened in Ella's tavern and before. The truth, harsh and disgusting, didn't seem to bother or to surprise the brother. His tone, calm and even, reveals his inner peace.

"You could have killed her and flung yourself on those men. You didn't. You chose to let her live, you knew you would be parted from her. You nevertheless made this decision."

"I left her. I betrayed her. I made a promise I couldn't respect."

"She's young. She has plenty of time to think about it and understand what you did. If you had decided to kill her, she wouldn't have time to blame you or praise the choice you made. And I would say that men invented oaths to break them. What? You're shocked a devout man can even think about breaking vows? You're very naïve, beneath your callous outward appearance. Septons and brown brothers sometimes break their vows. I'm not judging them; it happens, that is all."

As the Elder Brother is quiet, he sits up and clears his throat.

"What about my dream?" he asks, almost reluctantly. "Whose blood is it? Symon's? My brother's? Hers?"

The Elder Brother smiles. In his square face, broad grins make his lips thinner and his nose even more red.

"I was able to heal your wound, it doesn't mean I can decipher dreams. If you want my opinion, those who say they can understand other people's dreams are either fools or liars. Dreams only show what matters for us. We see the things we're obsessed with. No more, no less. The only truth your nightmare reveals is that you're obsessed with this girl. She haunts you. And death scares you because the Lannisters want you dead. There's no hidden message in your dream. You can always seek some purpose in suffering and losses, but there's no meaning at all. No purpose. Things happen and all we have to do is quite simple. Take good decisions. Try not to hurt anyone. And you didn't hurt her, you saved her."

He pauses again and sighs.

"Maybe there's a meaning after all. You arrived here with a bunch of questions. This is a good place to stay and think about what you did. This cave, here in Quiet Isle, is named the Hermit's Hole. The first hermit was certainly looking for answers, as well. You'll swear a vow of silence. Once you'll get some answers, you'll have to make a choice. Stay here and help me rule this place or quit. If you decide to leave Quiet Isle, we both know where you will go."

The Elder Brother stands up and walks to the door, then stops. His back to him, he waves as if some idea had suddenly sprung in his mind.

"Loving someone implies to make difficult choices. Let your loved one do as she pleases or protect her against her will. Which path did you choose? Are you able to choose this path again? Those are relevant questions."

Once the wooden shut quietly, as if the godly man feared to awaken a child, Sandor lies back and stares at the white-washed ceiling.

_Where are you now, my love? Are you thinking of me as a good man or as the traitor who left you alone? Are you even thinking of me?_ A faint grunt escapes his lips as he shifts in the bed. He can't make himself comfortable. There was another bed he didn't like, in the galley sailing back to Saltpans. _On our wedding night._ And there was the storm, the howling wind: the hull made an awful creaking noise. Images wash over him like the big cold waves soaked the upper deck that day.

The septon married them an hour ago and he was lying half across her, his scarred side on her naked chest, trying to adjust his breath on hers.

"In the end, I didn't even know if it was you or the swell," she told him, a secret smile on her lips.

At first, this crazy image struck him. _Childish yet enticing, like her._ Being compared to the raging waters enchanted him, but he raised his head and leaned on his elbow, faking anger.

"Of course, it was me! This is very unladylike, mistaking your husband for the swell. We should do it again, to make sure you can tell the difference between me and a bloody storm."

She giggled and ran her fingers through his hair. He wanted to follow through with his threats, but her remark sounded like a good reason to tease her back. Still leaning on his elbows, he locked eyes with her.

"Will you tell me someday what I said that night at the Thistle, when I was asleep?" he asked.

She blushed; in the dim light, he saw his wife's high cheekbones reddening, then her eyes glistened with tears.

"It's nothing," she said when she noticed his disconcerted look. "We've been through so many things lately, I was not sure I would live long enough to tell you. But here we are, right? Together, married... you can't get rid of me, now."

He wiped her tears with his thumb and asked again what he had said that night, making her laugh, this time.

"At first, you said 'I want you' and I was shocked," she told him. "I mean I knew it, but it felt real, especially when you wrapped your arm around my waist. Then you added 'And if someone takes you away from me, I'll find you. I can do it again.' That's all you said that night, but I made so much fuss about it you probably thought it was something bigger. Something more crude. You must be disappointed, Sandor."

Her forefinger trailed down his cheek, softly, in an apologetic way.

Lying on his bed in the Hermit's Hole, Sandor clutches the rough fabric of the sheets.

_No, my love, I'm not disappointed._

* * *

**Thanks a lot for the reviews, the support you gave me (following, favoriting this fic)! It helps me a lot.  
**

**Writing this was a little crazy and I did some crazy things these past weeks. You want a proof? I slept with an English dictionary. Literally. **

**Anyway, I'm very grateful for all this. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**Lucia**


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